


Fortune-verse

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romance. Comedy. Plot? What plot? Bones is tipsy. Jim is crafty. Ensign Chekov is Nervous. Shrijn is plotting to murder all three of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fortune's Favor 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers: Takes place about six months after the maiden voyage of the USS Enterprise, and the events of Star Trek. Note that this does not deviate from the 11th film canon if you were watching closely (or if you've seen it nine times ::clears throat::). Spoilers for the movie, duh.

"You look chipper."  
  
  
"Do I?"  Bones glares at his brandy--then glares even harder when Jim swings the table's other chair around to straddle it.  The only chair Jim doesn't do that with is the captain's chair, and only because that's bolted down. He looks up at his best friend, surprised at the unhidden concern on Jim's face. Tries to soften his voice into something a bit less raw. "Shouldn't you be out sampling the local talent instead of hanging around the officer's lounge?"  
  
  
"Ah, you know me, Bones.  Nowhere without my wingman." Jim smiles--the small, half-distracted one, that to Bones's libido, is a hell of a lot more devastating than the ten thousand watt one. It damn near literally lights up the dim, austere sepia-navy-grey tones of Deck 13: Aft, the officer's lounge. Most of the eyes that'd followed Jim in are still on him. Even the bartender, a scowling, refreshingly unpleasant Andorian--stocker of the best selection of hooch Bones's ever been privy to--is looking their way.  
  
  
Bones wonders if it can technically be considered  _being in my best friend's shadow_ , when said best friend shines so brightly. Then decides it doesn't matter.  
  
  
Jim, meanwhile, claps him on the arm, jostling the letter--handwritten, because Ethan's just  _that much_  of a goddamned spiteful and catty bitch--out of his hand and to the table. “What's this?”  
  
  
“Joyous news from the  _Ex-Wife_ \--hey!” Jim of course snatches the letter up and is reading it before Bones can stop him, not that he'd bother.  He's got no secrets from Jim Kirk. But still.  "You could've just asked me nicely, y'know?"  
  
  
Jim makes a noncommittal sound, apparently already chest deep in what has to be the most ridiculous, petty, hurtful letter Bones will likely ever receive.  When Jim's done reading, he looks taken aback himself, his normally merry light blue eyes gone solemn with surprise and sympathy.  
  
  
"Your marriage counselor?"  
  
  
Bones grunts, already mostly numbed by good Andorian brandy. And speaking of . . . he knocks back another shot. "Good ol' Dr. Wells--or Dr.  Ralph, as he so frequently saw fit to correct us."  
  
  
Jim snorts, and drags a third chair to their table for no apparent reason. The statuesque lieutenants at that table actually  _giggle_. "'Dr.  Ralph'?  That sounds like a bathroom code."  
  
  
"He  _is_  a bathroom code.  Two guesses  _which_  code, and the first one doesn't count," Bones mutters, and Jim pats his hand.  
  
  
"I'm sorry, Bones."  
  
  
"Ah."  Bones brushes off Jim's hand. Nearly tips over the bottle of brandy, but Jim catches it.  He's got amazing reflexes.  "Exes are ex for a reason, as my Grand-Mama used to say.  And it's a goddamned miracle Ethan and I were together for as long as we were.  A good portion of that time was due to Dr.  Feelgood, actually . . . but Ethan and I were a train-wreck waitin' to happen.  And I'm not sorry it's over, just--"  
  
  
"It kinda sucks to see your ex--even if your ex is mean, bitchy, conniving, and probably born of a jackal--move on with your former marriage counselor, of all people."  
  
  
Bones toasts Jim with his empty glass. He knows he'll regret this alcoholic--not to mention melodramatic--excess in the morning, but for now, he holds out the glass to Jim--who's got good reflexes, hand-eye coordination, and no apparent qualms about watching him drink himself into deep oblivion.  "They're getting married in March, and Ethan made a point of inviting me. To show there were no hard feelings.” Bones grins, and it feels brittle, hard, empty. “But I tore the invite up and tossed it down the reclamator. Hit me, Jim."  
  
  
Jim helpfully refills Bones's glass. To their left, an extravagantly large window gives them a fine view of the Laurentian system, and all its dark, empty splendor. This view, or lack of one, is the reason the officer's lounge suits his mood better than the Deck 10: Forward lounge. The last thing he wants to see--aside from the shiny, happy goings on of excited cadets and ensigns--is the sudden surge of space-traffic at one of Starfleet's farther flung outposts.  
  
  
They've only been in space-dock a few hours, and it seems like half the Fleet has arrived since. . . .  
  
  
He can feel the weight of Jim's consideration on him like sunlight. Not the warm, gentle kind, which is what Jim's regard usually feels like. This is something whiter, brighter. Colder. Pitilessly assessing. The last thing a batshit insane Romulan had seen before being consigned to death in a black hole.   
  
  
Then Jim blinks, and the scrutinizing look is gone, and it's just  _Jim_ , a little worried, a little angry. But strangely upbeat, nonetheless. "You know what you need?"    
  
  
"I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question."  
  
  
"What you need is to get back on the horse.  It's been--what?  Almost four years?"  Jim watches him swill his shot with amusement, hovering on the edges of sternness.  "Start dating again."  
  
  
"Have you forgotten we're on a spaceship?  In  _space_?"  Bones holds out his glass for more Andorian amnesia, which Jim pours reluctantly, and with narrowed eyes. Bones ignores the look, knocks back the shot, and nearly tips over backward--but for Jim's foot catching the seat of his chair.  And nearly his balls.  "Unlike you, Jim, I'm a sincere believer in keeping my life relatively free of bullshit drama. Which means, in part,  _not_  shitting where I eat."  
  
  
"Hmm. Is that one of your Grand-Mama's sayings, too?"  Jim's right eyebrow quirks in  _that way_ , the one that makes Bones almost want to rethink his long-held philosophy on shitting and eating.  But he tells his idiot hormones they ain't the boss of him, and that Jim's  _Jim_ : that way lies madness.  "Look, if you keep--not shitting where you eat, you're never gonna shit again!"  
  
  
Bones slams the glass down on the table, making Jim jump a little.  "Well, maybe I don't  _wanna_  shit again, y'ever think of that, Casanova?"  
  
  
Jim grimaces.  Pries the glass out of Bones's hand, and pours a shot which he himself then drinks. He squints at Bones, then pours another shot, and drinks that, too. "Nope, but that's a mental snapshot that'll linger."  
  
  
Bones smirks.  
  
  
"Look, you're a smart, funny, good-looking  _doctor_.  You could have any guy on this ship!  You know, any guy that was into guys," Jim wheedles, and waggles his eyebrows. “You just have to put yourself out there. I can name you three guys in  _this lounge_  that'd love to get examined by their very own personal Dr. McCoy.”  
  
  
"Lord above,  _how_  old are you, again? Jesus, Jim--I don't need you to sell my own sexuality to me," Bones grumbles, snatching his glass and his brandy back.  "And quit drinking all my hooch. D'ya know how much I had to grovel to get this bottle from Shrijn?"  
  
  
“Yeah, and if you could see past the end of your nose, you'd realize he'd probably give it to you for free if you asked him right,” Jim mutters, low enough that Bones can barely make out what he said--but it still makes no sense.  
  
  
“What the hell does  _that_  mean?”  
  
  
"Nothing, Bones, never mind--have you ever thought that if you got laid on a regular basis, maybe you wouldn't be such a stingy, crotchety bastard?"  Jim grins, big and calculated, glancing over Bones's shoulder with a nod.  "A healthy libido is the sign of a healthy mind."   
  
  
"Says a man with more libido than he has the mind to deal with it.  Damnit, Jim, I'm  _me_ , not  _you_!  I don't need to have sex five times a day just to stay sane!"  
  
  
"Sure you do--Mr.  Chekov!"  Jim booms.  Or maybe Bones is already in the rocky, echoey foothills of Hangover Mountain.  Either way, he's distracted by someone standing behind him momentarily, before stepping into eye-shot.  It's the gawky, nervous, probably malingering young ensign who's been showing up in sickbay more days than not, over the past few weeks.  "Fine coincidence running into you here, of all places!  I . . . don't suppose you'd like to join us?"  
  
  
The wide-eyed, oft-ill ensign swallows visibly, nervously.  Glances at Bones, and pastes on a nervous, toothy smile.  Then he's looking at Jim again, and nodding formally.  "Vhy tank you, Keptin.  I v-vould be honored."  
  
  
"Wait a minute, kid, this is the  _officer's_  lounge--how'd you even get  _in_  here?" Bones demands, but Jim's already talking over him, tugging the board-like young ensign down into the third chair.  
  
  
"Bones, you and Ensign Chekov know each other, right?"  he asks too innocently.  
  
  
 _He's up to something_ , Bones knows, but can't imagine what.  Jim Kirk suffers from permanent scoliosis of the mind, and Bones's long since given up trying to straighten him out.  
  
  
"Oh, we've met on several occasions."  He gives the ensign a flat-eyed, knowing look, and the kid all but quails, a hang-dog expression on his face.  "So how's the nausea? And the indigestion? And the dry-mouth?  And the acid reflux?  And the achy joints?"  
  
  
The ensign now resembles something very small caught in the headlights of something very large.  Until Jim elbows him.  Then that same nervous smile is pasted back on.  "Oh!  They are f-fine, Doctor!  Tanks, of course, to you--"  
  
  
"Yeah, Bones is the best, isn't he?"  Jim says, clapping the ensign on the shoulder with bluff good cheer.  And really, that ten thousand watt smile can't bode well for anyone.  It means Jim's up to something especially ill-advised.  "He's got so many admirable qualities--qualities you both share, in fact. I was just telling him that--"  
  
  
"I think I may throw up," Bones announces, not with any imminence, but with the dead certainty of the medically trained, and generally unlucky.  Taking grim note of the churning in his stomach, he sighs. "Sometime within the hour, I'd say.  I really should've stopped three shots ago."  
  
  
"Bones, you're  _not_  gonna throw up.  You  _always_  say you're gonna throw up, but I've never once, in three and half years of friendship, seen you do it."  Jim covers his face with his hands for a moment, shaking his head, but when he looks up again, he's still wearing that car salesman smile. “You're fine. You're not gonna throw up.”  
  
  
"Oh, aren't I?  Then stick around for a little bit, 'cause you're in for a real treat."  Bones mirrors Jim's smile back at him, and they sit there, grinning and staring each other down like macaques, till the ensign clears his throat quietly.  
  
  
"Say, Bones--did you know that Pavel, here, is an avid chess player?"  Jim asks, without breaking the gaze or the grin, that eyebrow quirking up.  Bones isn't sure whether he wants to kiss Jim, or slug him. He finally looks down in sullen concession, and his eyes light on the letter. Remembers that he's got plenty of other things to be depressed about than his tangled, unpredictably powerful, and always inappropriate attraction to his best friend and captain.  
  
  
"My ex was what you'd call an avid chess player,” he says softly, understating matters just a bit. Ethan was a world renowned competitor--one who loved nothing better than savagely mopping the floor with his opponents. Especially in casual games, with casual players. Never got over the dubious thrill of owning his middling-at-best husband after badgering him into playing. Talk about a vicious cycle--Bones never won, and Ethan never got tired of seeing him lose. “He was also what you'd call an avid prick.”  
  
  
Bones means to crumple the letter . . . but instead refolds it, and shoves it in his pocket. Decides to drink until he's drunk enough to toss it, too, down the reclamator. Or till Shrijn finally closes the lounge and tosses him out.  
  
  
For a few moments, no one speaks.  Jim is scowling at Bones like he wants to strangle him.  The ensign is looking at his hands: square, pale and tightly clasped on the table. He's muttering something in Russian.  
  
  
Poor bastard doesn't even look old enough to drink.  In fact, at seventeen, Bones is pretty sure he's not.    
  
  
"Hey, kid--" and when the ensign looks up hopefully, Bones pulls the bottle a bit further out of reach.  "Y'can't have any, so don't even ask.  You're too young, and the last thing I wanna see while I'm babying  _my_  hangover is  _your_  hungover mug gazing up at me from a sickbay bed."  
  
  
The ensign looks so crestfallen that for a second, Bones feels bad for the kid. It must be horrible being the only person shipboard who's not old enough to drink.  
  
  
Then Jim randomly kicks him in the shin.  "Ow! Now what the hell was that for?"  
  
  
"Ohhh.  Okay, Dr. McCoy," the kid says quietly, and Jim kicks him in the other leg, looking extremely annoyed. As if he's got the right!  
  
  
"What is your  _problem_ , Jim?"  Bones tries to angle his legs out of kicking range, but Jim's standing up. He's not especially tall, but at the moment he looks it.  
  
  
"There's no problem at all, Dr. McCoy.  Pavel, I've got some important, captain-type things to do on the Bridge, but in the meantime, would you mind keeping the good doctor company until he passes out in a puddle of vomit and recriminations? Thanks."  Jim claps the ensign on the shoulder more gently than he ever claps Bones, and doesn't wait for an answer.  But he does return the kid's miserable, uncertain smile encouragingly.  
  
  
The look he turns on Bones is considerably less kind.  "Try not to be a complete ogre, okay--and try and remember what I said, too."  
  
  
"Meh." Bones waves his hand dismissively.  He's no ogre. And even if he is, so what? “You say lots of things, most of which thankfully go in one ear and out the other. You'll have to be more specific.”  
  
  
Jim obviously bites back some choice words, and Bones grins, raising his empty glass again. "Go get laid, Jim, and stop worrying about me. I'll be fine, and I'll see you tomorrow for lunch. Twelve-thirty hours?"  
  
  
"As always." Jim sighs, shaking his head. He squeezes the ensign's shoulder again, while shooting Bones a weird, urgently wide-eyed look behind the kid's back, and mouthing something Bones can't make out.  He almost says  _damnit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a lip-reader!_  
  
  
But Jim's already swaggering towards the exit, winking at Nurse Chapel on the way. She gives him a  _look_  of her own, and joins him on the way out.  
  
  
“My own head nurse--the man is unbelievable,” Bones mutters with disgust bordering on admiration.  And he has to remind himself not to ogle Jim's ass as it disappears out of the lounge.  
  
  
 _The harder I try to disentangle my life, the more tangles appear,_  he thinks, though Jim is, without a doubt and setting aside the inappropriate attraction, the best thing that's happened to him since getting accepted into the Academy.  
  
  
He's pouring himself another shot of brandy, more out of reflex than anything else, when he notices the nervous ensign again.  Somewhat more composed, but still ill at ease. He avoids Bones's gaze, the same way he does in sickbay, as if he thinks Bones is Betazoid, and about to read his mind.  
  
  
"So!"  Bones barks, the ensign jumps a little in his seat, meeting Bones's eyes for a moment before glancing away.  "You're frequently beset with nuisance maladies. And thus,  _I'm_  frequently beset with  _you_."  
  
  
"Em, I. . . ."  
  
  
"'Em, I,' isn't an acceptable reply, Ensign."  Bones sips his shot for once, lets the burn mellow him a bit.  "Look, over the past few weeks I've treated you for headaches, nausea, dizziness, stomach cramps, aching joints--if I didn't know better, Mr. Chekov, I'd swear you were pregnant." The ensign blushes and looks guiltier.  “Working on the assumption that you're not, let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?  Why're you in my sickbay every other day?  You're either the unluckiest sonofabitch on ship, or you're malingering."  
  
  
The ensign sighs heavily, muttering to himself in Russian again. Then he meets Bones's eyes squarely.  "Vell, recently I . . . am experiencing emotional . . . unrest. For seweral months, ecktually, and I am certain my symptoms stem from this unrest.”  
  
  
Bones is nearly a year away from his last psych rotation, back at the Academy. There's nothing physically wrong with the ensign--from his medical records, he's never been anything less than healthy as a horse.  
  
  
So if the ensign's not malingering, and the problems aren't physical, then they're psychosomatic.  
  
  
 _Lovely._  Bones sighs.  The last thing he needs to hear is someone else's problems, but . . . hell, he probably sees this kid more than anyone else on the ship does.  Heaven forbid Starfleet employ, say, a ship's counselor or two for their flagship. Or any ship in the fleet, really. Bones has no love of headshrinkers--thinks psychology's ninety-eight percent, grade-A bullshit--but even he can allow it's useful when taken with a very large grain of salt.  
  
  
"Okay, I'll bite, for now. What the hell kind of emotional 'unrest' is causing the physical symptoms you've been experiencing?”  
  
  
The kid turns pink, and begins to stammer, focusing on his hands once more, and suddenly Bones understands.  
  
  
“Rejected, or unrequited?”  
  
  
The ensign heaves another soulful sigh. “The latter.  These feelings are . . . for someone who does not ewen know I exist.  And so, they gnaw at me, make me feel like I am ill. The deeper my feelings get, the  _vorse_  I feel, because I know I vill newer--” bright, sad blue eyes meet Bones's, once again hopeful, and--  
  
  
Bones just doesn't look forward to telling the kid  _sorry, I'm a doctor, not a therapist. I haven't got any remedy for this type of illness. I, of all people, have no cure when it comes to the human heart._  
  
  
So he pours another shot.  Shrugs as he pushes it toward the kid, who blinks in surprise. “You look like you need it.”   
  
  
With a wry, sweet smile that makes Bones want to punch someone, the ensign accepts the shot. Wraps his hands around it like he's warming them. “Keptin Kork say that 'fortune fawors the bold', but I do not know.  I try to be bold, and it . . . vell, it backfired, ecktually. Now I just feel foolish.”  
  
  
 _I didn't have romantic woes when I was his age, did I?_  Bones wonders, then he remembers of course he didn't.  When he was seventeen, he was still just dating Mary Jo Slattery, not yet trapped in a mutually sterile marriage with her. He hadn't nearly gotten bounced out of his residency, yet. Hadn't gone through his first, acrimonious-yet-too-weary-to-be-vindictive divorce.  
  
  
When Bones was seventeen, his second marriage had still been eight years away--his second divorce and Starfleet fourteen and fifteen years away, respectively.  
  
  
 _Damn, I'm getting old,_  he thinks, feeling his thirty-six years twice over. With some extra years just for giggles.  
  
  
“Well,” he grits out. “First thing is, for cryin' out loud, kid--whatever you do,  _do not_  listen to James T.  Kirk's romantic advice.  A thing like that'd land a decent boy like you up to his eyeballs in trouble. And probably with a fine case of the Clap, to boot. That's the first thing.”  
  
  
The ensign gazes into his shot like it's a crystal ball. His lips are twitching slightly. “And vhat vould be the second thing, Dr. McCoy?”  
  
  
“Don't shit where y'eat.” Bones glares until the kid senses it, and looks up at him. “Whoever she is, if she's on this ship, she's a coworker, and probably your superior.  _That way lies madness_. Plus, she's probably too old for you, anyway. At least twenty-five or twenty-six, right?”  
  
  
“Em.  _She's_  . . . older than that, ecktually,” the ensign mutters, that wry-sweet smile making a brief reappearance. Bones rolls his eyes.  
  
  
“Dear God, kid! Be  _glad_  she doesn't know you exist, then!” Bones shakes his head. “Let me impart a little wisdom gained the hard way during my misspent journeyman years: May-December romances with a superior are a goddamned nightmare wrapped in orgasms and land mines. Sure, the sex can be amazing, and the sneaking around is a thrill. But in the end, you'll likely get your heart razed to microns, and wind up wishing you'd never been born. Not to mention the censure from your peers and superiors. You'd be better served by a phaser-blast to the chest.”  
  
  
The ensign looks completely disheartened, and though Bones feels bad, he knows he'd feel worse letting the kid suffer more in the future to spare him a little pain now. “Respectfully, sir . . . you are not a wery optimistic man.”  
  
  
“You're goddamned right I'm not. Got too much experience under my belt to ever be  _that_.” Bones picks up the bottle of brandy. It's still three quarters full, and he seriously considers chugging down at least half of it. Then decides that while part of him craves oblivion, at least for a little while, the greater part of him just doesn't want to die of severe alcohol poisoning, twitching and comatose in his own puke.  
  
  
The ensign sighs yet again, and picks up his shot. Sniffs it, and holds it up to the light, before shrugging and quaffing the brandy with nary a wince. In fact, he smiles, and reaches for the bottle, pouring himself a second shot without hesitation, knocking it back like an old hand.  
  
  
Malingerer or not, in that moment, Bones is impressed. Watches the pale, strong line of the kid's throat--the pulse beating steadily in it, and the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. . . .  
  
  
Then those bright blue eyes open, the picture of innocent bliss. “Oh, this is wery, wery nice. Vhat is it?”  
  
  
“Uh . . .  _that_  is Andorian brandy, kid--strongest thing on the market that doesn't double as goddamned drain cleaner. What're  _you_?” Bones asks, watching the ensign pour a third shot and take a shallow sip. His pale-pink mouth purses; he's a baby-faced connoisseur of intergalactic hooch who licks his lips slowly, guilelessly, his eyes shut as if to capture the taste and brand it on his memory.  
  
  
Bones shakes his head despite the way it makes the lounge rotate, amused and horrified in more ways than one, and all in the same moment. The ensign finally throws back his third shot in as many minutes.  
  
  
“I am Russian,” he says simply, with quiet pride. After a moment of wide-eyed disbelief, Bones grins. Signals Shrijn that he needs a second glass. The brooding Andorian nods once, while frowning murderously at him--nothing new there--and sends the server their way.  
  
  
She sets the glass down with a quick smile--a cute young thing, no more than twenty-two, and probably better for the kid than whatever oblivious older woman he has his sights set on--that lingers on the ensign, who's too busy watching Bones to notice. And when the server drifts away, he's  _still_  staring. Smiling, as if he's figuring something out.  
  
  
Bones can only hope the  _something_  is that he deserves better than a one-sided romance with someone who probably can't tell their head from a hole in the ground, if they can't spot the kid's infatuation from ninety light years away.  
  
  
He pours them both a shot. Never mind that he'll probably have to treat them for apocalyptic hangovers in the morning, assuming they don't die of alcohol poisoning in the night. “Alright. How's a kid your age--even a whiz-kid like you--wind up with a commission on the Fleet's flagship, anyway? Do your parents know where you are?”  
  
  
The ensign looks startled, and out of his element once more. “Em--vell, yes. It . . . vould have been impossible for me to enlist vithout--”  
  
  
Bones rolls his eyes. “I take it they're not partial to humor back in the Motherland,” he says dryly, finishing his shot in a swallow that still burns like the first. Those blue-skinned, antennaed bastards sure make potent hooch.   
  
  
“Is  _that_  vhat that vas supposed to be, sir? Humor?” The ensign's eyebrows lift gently, in conscious and eerie imitation of Commander Spock at his most subtly condescending. Then he pours them both another shot after finishing his own. “Fascinating.”  
  
  
Bones snorts. Then laughs, long and hard, unaware--and uncaring had he known--of the many surprised eyes on him. Almost no one shipboard has ever heard him laugh. (Probably never thought they would.)  
  
  
A few minutes ago, Bones'd been certain he'd never be able to laugh again. “Kid, you're alright.”  
  
  
Far from being damned by such faint praise, the ensign lights up under it like a supernova. Whoever this superior of his is, she either has to be next to a goddamned idiot, and blind as well, not to be able read this kid's feelings like old-fashioned newsprint . . . or she's the most stand-up person in the whole Fleet for not taking advantage of the situation.  
  
  
Bones grudgingly admits, watching the kid put away his fourth shot--the curving column of neck, the damned  _poetry_  that is him swallowing, the slow glide of pink tongue across slightly paler lips--that whatever Jim's opinion of his libido, he not only has one, but one that's in full working (if long-celibate) order.  
  
  
If genuine temptation came knocking, Bones likely wouldn't be as principled as the kid's mystery officer. So it's a good thing that, as complicated as his life gets--exponentially so, since he's been stationed on the Enterprise--he'll never, ever find himself in  _that_ particular situation.  
  
  
Thank Heaven for small goddamned favors.


	2. Fortune's Favor 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bones is hung . . . over. Miserably so. Ensign Chekov is not. Shrijn is almost kind. The crew have misconceptions. Bones gets hit with many clue-by-fours. Karaoke. Perception vs. Reality. Oh, and the Butler did it. Hah!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers: Set about six months after the maiden voyage of the Enterprise, and the events of Star Trek. Doesn't deviate from the 11th film canon, spoilers for the movie.

Bones is requisitioning some last minute medical supplies--there's no rest for the ship's doctor he's learned, even when the rest of the crew is on a mini-leave--through a brain-pounding, bleary-eyed, dry-mouthed hangover even painkillers don't really seem to budge.  
  
  
The door to his office chimes softly, and he jabs his stylus at the tablet so hard, the unit beeps at him disapprovingly.  
  
  
"Everyone's a critic-- _enter at your own risk!_ " he barks, to scare off make-work in any form.  His body feels like a rotten, brittle old tree, his mouth tastes vaguely like death, despite brushing and gargling . . . and if Nurse Havlock brings him one goddamned more piece of busywork, so help him--  
  
  
"The officer's lounge is not your personal storage facility, Dr. McCoy," a cold, husky tenor says--most definitely not Nurse Havlock's sullen basso-profundo.  Bones looks up to see Shrijn, the bartender at the officer's lounge, standing in the doorway.  His arms are akimbo, his moon-white hair glows eye-wateringly under direct light, and his antennae are writhing around in a restless, distracting fashion.  "I'll ask you not to leave your property laying about my bar.”  
  
  
"What in hell're you talking about, Shrijn?"  Bones asks after a few blank moments. He puts down his stylus and pad. “I haven't left any personal property in your damned bar--except possibly my dignity, a time or two. And surely  _that_ 's not big enough for the other patrons to trip over."  
  
  
Shrijn's antennae swivel toward him, and light-blue lips twitch just a bit, neither up nor down.  "I found this on the floor near your usual table." One cobalt hand dips in and out of the pocket of Shrijn's rough-weave green-black body-suit, retrieving a folded piece of paper.  
  
  
Nothing remarkable about it, except--  
  
  
"Oh," Bones says numbly, the supplies and the last, fading remnants of his hangover forgotten as the reason for last night's ridiculous drinking binge--never again will he try to out-drink a Russian, even a baby one--comes rushing back like a meteor.  
  
  
And though he can't remember much else about last night after he and the young ensign started drinking in earnest, he's up and around his desk, taking the letter before he thinks about doing it.  He wants to hide it in his pocket, but it's far too late for that.  Shrijn would've had to read it--or get someone else to read it, though Bones deeply, sincerely hopes this is not the case--to know who to return it to.  
  
  
Bones hadn't even missed it this morning as he stripped and emptied his pockets.  Nothing in them but lint, his personal tricorder, and a piece of that Denobulan brittle no one but he and Hikaru Sulu seem to like.  
  
  
But no letter . . . and Bones hadn't even noticed.  Hasn't thought about Ethan once since he woke up, and wishes to God Shrijn had simply tossed the damn letter like the trash it was, and saved him the trouble of obsessing over it.  
  
  
And obsess over it Bones will, he has no doubt.  
  
  
"You didn't have to bring this to me, Shrijn. You coulda just . . . tossed it down the reclamator, and saved yourself a walk. This particular Memory Lane doesn't need to be strolled any more than I've already strolled it," he says, and means for it to sound wry, but it just sounds bitter and hurt.  
  
  
Shrijn, meanwhile nods his head once, slowly, deeply--practically a bow.  Aliens, Bones has noticed, seem to like doing that. But none more than the Andorians and the Vulcans. He thinks it's their way of politely acknowledging the existence of deep feelings in others, without inquiring about them. Depending on his mood, most days he thinks it's damned callous, though some days he thinks . . . not so much.  
  
  
Today would be one of the not-so-much days.  
  
  
"It was not my property to dispose of, Doctor," Shrijn says formally, crossing his arms over a barrel of a chest. His eyes are a blue so dark they appear to be black, and it's . . . disconcerting. Bones finds it hard to hold such a gaze, especially in light of what Shrijn now surely knows about his myriad failures as a husband. . . .  
  
  
Starfleet was supposed to be, and has been a fresh start. It'd seemed like every Ty and Arlene back home'd known about the implosion of his marriage. After four years, he's not so anxious to revisit that time in his life.  
  
  
(Though . . . Shrijn  _is_  an Andorian, as well as a bartender.  So even if he cared about the problems of his patrons--highly doubtful--he certainly wouldn't tell all and sundry about those problems. And he wouldn't superficially solve Bones's problem by destroying the letter when Bones so obviously meant to keep it.  
  
  
There is, after all, the easy way, and the Andorian way.)  
  
  
Bones shakes his head, and for once wishes he was a man prone to finding easy outs. Or at least steering clear of people and situations that eventually required them. "I suppose you're right. And thank you for your . . . discretion--” another nod that's practically a bow, stiff and graceful at the same time “--and I suppose I'll see you in the officer's lounge, tonight, or some other."  
  
  
“Indeed. One hopes our little lounge's stock of brandy will survive the visit.” A wave of antennae, and Shrijn is gone.  
  
  
“Don't count on it, my Andorian chum.” Bones sighs and looks at the letter. He knows that in another few seconds he'll be re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-and so on reading it. Will probably read it at least three times a day for the next few months, if not years. . . .  
  
  
"I have also arranged for an event called 'karaoke' to take place this evening in the lounge.”  At the oddly unfrosty note in Shrijn's voice, Bones' looks up again.  The Andorian is standing in the doorway once more, his antennae still swiveling in Bones's direction.  “Starting at 21:00 hours."  
  
  
"Karaoke, huh?"  Bones puts the letter in his pocket, glad of any excuse to forget it. If only for a little while. "And they say in space, no one can hear you scream."  
  
  
Now, the antennae swivel to the sides, laying almost flat, and Shrijn's lips twitch once more. “It has been explained to me repeatedly that humans delight in this particular . . . recreation. I have taken it upon myself to requisition karaoke software for the lounge, and if your colleagues seem to enjoy it, Wednesdays will be . . . Karaoke Wednesdays, henceforth.”  Shrijn's eyes narrow and crinkle at the corners, and the antennae drift slowly toward Bones again.  “And after last night . . . one assumes alcohol-fueled public performance might interest you. In any event, your presence tonight would not go amiss--yours  _and_  your  _en-chan_ 's, worry not."  
  
  
"Thank you, Shrijn, that's--my  _en-_  what?"  
  
  
It doesn't really seem like Shrijn's facial expression changes, but a certain minor discomfort is heavily implied by the way his antennae go flat again, but one to the side and one to the back.  "Your . . . ah.  Potential mate."  
  
  
"My  _what_?!" Bones demands, all kinds of red, then all kinds of pale under his complexion.  "Uh, I don't know who you get your gossip from, pal, but Jim and I are not, I repeat:  _not_ \--"  
  
  
"I was not speaking of the Captain."  A mostly expressionless once-over, then Shrijn's leaving again--for real, this time.  "Your ensign will be welcome in the lounge, no matter his low rank.  Good morning, Doctor."  
  
  


*

  
  
  
"Dr.  McCoy! Vhat are you doing  _here_?"  
  
  
When the door to the his quarters opens, the startled ensign is standing there barefoot and shirtless and it's . . . a little distracting.  
  
  
Actually, the ensign's only half shirtless and still in the process of being shirted, but that's still easily worth a full measure of distraction. At least till the ensign follows Bones's gaze, and hurriedly jams his other arm in its sleeve and pulls a neon-green turtleneck down over distressed blue-jeans that're one scant step from being painted-on.  
  
  
“Sorry, sir--I vas not tinking.  Ehm. How may I help you?” he chirps brightly. Though his face is red, his eyes aren't, and he looks as fresh as if he just woke from a restful sleep, not a drunken stupor.  
  
  
Bones was expecting the kid to at least look as scraggly and drawn as he, himself, feels. A feeling that's been repeatedly confirmed by the Enterprise's many mirrored surfaces.  
  
  
“Um.”  He shakes his head to clear it of lingering after-images of a milk-pale, relatively hairless chest. For some reason, he'd expected the ensign to be scrawny, and though the kid  _is_  little more than wiry muscle lashed tightly to a broad frame, he's nothing like hard on the eyes. “Uh, you doing anything right now?”  
  
  
"Em--" the ensign bites back a jaw-cracker of a yawn, if the face he's making is anything to go by. “--ecktually, I am going to Promenade 2. . . .”  
  
  
The space-dock. Overall it's not large for its kind, but there are plenty of interesting windows to shop and people to watch, from what he's heard. Not to mention a round-the-clock nightclub-slash-dance hall. “Did you sleep at all last night, or move the party to the Promenade?”  The ensign glances away guiltily.  
  
  
“I  _did_  go valking on Promenade 1 to clear my head and . . . I lost track of time. Then there vere errands to run, and appointments to keep. Sleep vas out of the qvestion.” When Bones shoots him a disapproving look, the kid smiles a little.  “I von't make a habit of it, Doctor.”  
  
  
“See that you don't. Anyway, I'll walk you to the transporter room. We need to talk.”  Bones starts back down the corridor. Pauses, as the kid dashes back into his quarters, a  _just a moment, doctor!_  trailing over his shoulder.  
  
  
It's actually about twenty moments before he dashes back out, wearing a matching denim jacket (with his comm-badge on it . . . responsible kid) and the ugliest orange sneakers Bones's ever seen.  
  
  
“Okay, now ve go,” he says, running a hand through his hair.  Bones rolls his eyes and starts walking. The ensign immediately falls in, shooting him curious looks every few steps. For the first time, Bones notices they're nearly the same height.  
  
  
“Got a hot date?” he asks amused and irritated. Then belatedly remembers he's not the only one with romantic issues. The poor kid's got a crush on some officer who's either oblivious, or trying her best to ignore the situation till it goes away. And sure, the kid seems markedly less miserable today than he had in the officer's lounge, but if Bones knows one thing, it's that pain happily waits till it's been somewhat forgotten to make itself known once more.  
  
  
But the ensign just shrugs the unintentional reminder off. “If by  _hot date_ , you mean vone last wisit to hang out vith my cousin Radmila, then you are correct.”  
  
  
Surprised, Bones looks over at him. Between the tight jeans, and loud shirt, there's only one place he feels comfortable resting his eyes: the kid's profile. The way he bites his lip when he's not talking, and the still-damp curls that've hastily been pushed back off his forehead. “You have family out here?”  
  
  
“Just her. Most of my family is still either on Terra or Luna. Though my Uncle Branko--on the Medawoy side of the family--is part of the Zviefel-Hefflin Project on Pawonis Mons.” The ensign glances at him and smiles. “But 'Mila vas the first Chekov to make it out of the solar system.”  
  
  
It's said with pride and fondness, and Bones finds himself warming to this ensign even without the aid of Andorian brandy. “And you're the first Chekov to make it out of the galaxy.”  
  
  
“I--I newer thought about it that vay, before.” That smile widens, and Bones is helpless to do anything but return it. They turn a corner, and there's a comfortable lull in the conversation. Then: “V-vhat about  _your_  family, sir?”  
  
  
“Still on Earth--every last, goddamned crazy one of 'em. Except me.” Bones snorts. Forces himself to stop smiling by remembering the reason he sought the kid out in the first place. “Anyway. I had an enlightening visit from Shrijn this morning, and was hoping maybe  _you_  could . . . shed a little  _more_  light on what the hell I said or did last night to make him think you and I are an item."  
  
  
The ensign's brow furrows, and the phrase  _cute as a button_  certainly don't cross Bones's lumbering, hung-over mind. "An item?  I don't underst--"  
  
  
"Why does Shrijn think we-- _you and I_ \--are mating? I mean  _dating_! Dating!"  Bones amends quickly, but the ensign doesn't seem too shocked.  In fact, he seems only mildly dismayed, at most.  
  
  
Suddenly there's a sinking feeling in Bones's stomach that, post-drinking binge, doesn't sit well all.  
  
  
"Alright, whiz-kid, out with it."  
  
  
"You, em.  You don't remember?" The ensign blushes, and shoves his hands in the pockets of the jacket. He's so adorable, it gets on Bones's nerves, just a little bit. Makes him feel like he's scolding a puppy.  
  
  
Well. It wouldn't be the first time.  
  
  
"If I remembered, would I be asking for a play-by-play, ensign?"  It comes out harsher than intended, and the kid makes a vaguely pained face. Starts walking faster, hands shoved even deeper in his pockets, and Bones is forced to play catch-up. “So what happened?”  
  
  
"Vell," the ensign begins uncomfortably, looking down at the shiny, Starfleet issue floor.  "Ve had been drinking the Andorian brandy for some time, and you started singing--"  
  
  
" _Singing_? I started singing?" Mortifying, of course. Maudlin standards always seem like such a good idea when he's been drinking, but they never are.  Not really. Still, it could have been a lot worse. At least he wasn't singing--  
  
  
“As I recall, the song vas about someplace called 'Margaritawille', and something, I forget vhat, about salt," the ensign says thoughtfully.  
  
  
And that sound? Would be the sound of another shoe dropping.  
  
  
The last time Bones got Margaritaville-drunk was right after he signed the divorce papers. There are two days afterward he still can't completely account for, though one thing remains certain: he definitely filled out an application for Starfleet Academy. "Jesus . . . and I suppose you, Mr.  I. M.  Russian, were fine as paint?"  
  
  
"I . . . vas a bit unsteady for avhile."  The ensign clears his throat.  "Anyvay, vonce I pick up some of the vords, I start singing vith you.  And Mr. Casvell . . . he decided he did not care for the choice of song. Among other tings. He made his opinion generally known, at vhich point--"  
  
  
Bones throws his hands up in the air in a universal  _stop_  gesture. “This all very fascinating, I'm sure, but it doesn't tell me why Shrijn--and possibly everyone in the officers' lounge last night, thinks we're a couple."  
  
  
Now the kid's discomfort increases, as does his walking speed. "You, em . . . he vas being a boolly--or trying to be a boolly.  But you stood up to him before he did anyting vorse than name-calling."   
  
  
Bones flexes his hands. They feel neither stiff nor swollen. Though he can hold his own in a good old-fashioned donnybrook, he doesn't go looking for trouble. Doesn't particularly care for fighting. “And what was he saying that required standing up to? I'm assuming there wasn't a scuffle?"  
  
  
"No! No, there vas no scuffle! And . . . I vould prefer not to repeat vhat Mr. Casvell said, sir." The ensign's lips purse together in a way Bones knows means  _kaput_. Oh, he could pull rank and force the issue, but considering what Shrijn's assumed about them, he can pretty much get the jist of what  _Caswell_  would've assumed. "But he vas wery rude--and wery inebriated. He made seweral nasty insinooations regarding my presence in the officer's lounge, and vhat I did to get inwited there.  You . . . took exception to his rudeness."  
  
  
"I'll just bet I did," Bones growls. (He's always had a weak-spot for helping the helpless. Half thinks that's why he went into medicine. And it's certainly how he met the ex Mrs. and Mr. McCoy: rescued Mary Jo from a sudden rainstorm with his umbrella, and Ethan from a drunk-and-very-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend with a ride back to his dorm.)  
  
  
But try though he might, he really only has the vaguest recollection of giving someone the sharp edge of his tongue last night--not that that's an uncommon occurrence, even when Bones is sober. And he certainly remembers Caswell from his occasional run-ins with Jim back at the Academy: built like a mountain, close-set eyes.  Voice like asteroids colliding in atmo.  Personality like an angry bull.  A real winner.  
  
  
One who'd see nothing wrong with casting possibly career-destroying aspersions on a superior officer and a very young ensign. Something Jim will certainly hear about over lunch.  
  
  
"Caswell's an utter jackass," Bones says with the kind of heartfelt sincerity reserved only for disagreeing with any of Jim's schemes. The ensign nods solemnly.  
  
  
"That is vhat you told  _him_ , sir--seweral times, sir.  At length.  You vere  _magnificent_ ," he adds softly, wonderingly. So admiringly, Bones nearly glances behind himself to see if he's acquired a cape or a jet-pack.  
  
  
"Well. Everyone knows Caswell's got a chip on his shoulder and that, as the senior officer present, I wasn't just gonna let him get away with that kind of unprofessional behavior.” Bones glares randomly at a young science officer coming from the left at the next intersection. She not only jumps out of the way as he approaches, but salutes him smartly as he passes, and he feels sort of bad. “Oh, as you were. So, Caswell's got a reprimand coming his way even if I have to go to Starfleet Command myself. But that still doesn't explain why--"  
  
  
"You vere holding my hand, sir."  The ensign blurts out, sneaking worried glances out of the corner of his eye.  "Vhile you vere defending me. You told Mr. Casvell vhat he could do vith his 'sensitive ears and inappropriate comments,' and you took my hand and held it wery tight."  
  
  
Bones's mouth drops open as his brain finally kicks into gear and fits more puzzle pieces into their proper places. The picture he's already seeing is startlingly clear. It's of the senior medical officer of the Fleet's flagship, defending his sexual relationship with an _ensign_  who happens to also be a minor.  
  
  
It's a picture that could be titled  _The Scream_ , if that title weren't already taken.  
  
  
“Sweet Christ.” Aaaaand . . . there goes the marching band that'd been playing in his head since he woke up. He'd practically forgotten it was there.  
  
  
He pinches the bridge of his nose till his eyes water.  
  
  
“Doctor? Sir, are you . . . okay?” The ensign sounds worried and guilty, and Bones looks over at him to offer a limp grimace of a smile.  
  
  
“Oh, I'm Jim-dandy, kid.” The ensign looks skeptical, and Bones shrugs. "Look, there's a reason old dogs like me generally drink alone.  Case in point. I'm sorry for embarrassing you like that, and if anything comes of last night, I'll take full responsibility."  
  
  
"Embarrass me?  But--you  _defended_  me, sir.  Ewen though Mr.  Casvell looked like he vas about to break you in two.  You vere wery brave and--" the ensign searches for the word he wants, eyes as wide as wonder. “Chiwalrous.”  
  
  
" _Chiwalrous_ , was I?"  Bones snorts. That's never been a word used to describe him when he's piss-drunk. Nor is  _handsy_ , but he has to make sure. "And, in regards to you, did I . . .  _remain_  chiwalrous?"  
  
  
The ensign looks blank for a few moments, then sighs unhappily.  "I suppose you do not remember that ve made love?"  
  
  
Bones stops dead in his tracks while his brain skips merrily toward melt-down. The ensign walks on for a few feet before he realizes he's alone.  When he looks back at Bones, he's grinning apologetically.  
  
  
"Just kidding, sir."  
  
  
“You're not funny, y'know?” Bones's voice cracks with relief, and his brain tries to right itself. Thankfully, he doesn't exhibit any of the textbook signs of an impending heart attack, or stroke. “Whoever  _told_  you you were funny should be dragged out into the street and shot!”  
  
  
"Sorry, sir--that vas a wery inappropriate joke, and I apologize." Oh, the kid looks chastened, but there's a twinkle in his eyes that Bones doesn't trust for a moment.  
  
  
“Yeah, well, your sincerity isn't exactly bowling me over, ensign.” He stalks past the kid, forcing  _him_  to play catch up almost all the way to the turbo-lift. The hideous sneakers squeak and scuff on the spotless floor. White walls with quiet panels and consoles bleed by anonymously. “Okay, so all I did was grab your hand while I bitched out Caswell? Nothing else?"  
  
  
"That vas all, I svear!" He at least  _sounds_  sincere, now.  
  
  
“Good, then,” Bones grunts, and when the turbo-lift arrives, they both get on.  
  
  
The doors close and they face each other from opposite sides of the lift, neither of them saying anything. Not even a deck number.  
  
  
But the silence isn't uncomfortable, just expectant. Though who expects what is beyond Bones. He just hopes the fallout from his little Don Quixote act won't be too bad. And since nothing  _too_  damning was said or done, hand-holding aside, the gossip should dry up quick enough. Like fires, rumors die if they don't get fed.  
  
  
Which means, the sooner he and the kid part ways, the better off they'll both be. “So--” he begins at the same time the ensign says: “Em--”  
  
  
Then he laughs a little. “I just vanted to say tank you, Dr.  McCoy. For . . . last night.”  
  
  
“Ah.” Bones hunches his shoulders and looks up at the bright lighting panels on the ceiling. Anything, so he doesn't have to see the kid looking at him like he hung the universe. “I'm no knight in shining armor. That ape's been asking for a McCoy-style tongue-lashing for  _years_. Can't think of a better reason for him to finally get it.”  
  
  
The kid perks up, looks inordinately pleased for some reason. “Tank you not just for that, but for letting me, em, vhat is the term? Cramp your style?”  
  
  
“If anyone's style was cramped, it was  _yours_.” Bones gives up on the light panels, to the relief of his eyes and his head, and studies the kid's ugly sneakers, instead. Maybe if they didn't have those weird green and purple starbursts on them. . . . “You drank me under the table, then you dragged me back to my quarters without breaking both our necks.  _After_  I embarrassed us both in front of our colleagues. I'd say on the chivalry-front, you've kinda got me beat.”  
  
  
“Perhaps,” the ensign allows doubtfully. Those garish sneakers cross the lift, then the ensign's hands are on Bones's shoulders, his lips pressed to Bones's right cheek.  
  
  
The kiss lingers a bit longer than the  _should-not-have-happened-in-the-first-place_  that propriety demands--Bones has time to note the kid's lips  _are_  every bit as soft as they look, that he smells like spearmint, and some kind of herbal soap or shampoo--and Bones starts to turns his face away. Just as the ensign goes for his other cheek.  
  
  
Which he misses by about two inches, landing a kiss square on Bones's open mouth. For one electric, lightning-bright, eternal moment a familiar, sweet-hot ache gathers in his chest.  And even as he's about to break the kiss, he could swear the ensign's minty, slippery tongue briefly brushes his own.  
  
  
Strong hands squeeze his shoulders and, age and impropriety aside, there's something here that might be worth exploring, if only for another moment. . . .  
  
  
Then there's a quiet  _whoosh!_  as the turbo-lift doors open. Bones and the ensign fly apart like shrapnel, but not quickly enough, it would appear. Scotty's round eyes tick back and forth between them, his mouth agape.  Bones clears his throat and glances at the ensign--  
  
  
\--who's plastered on the opposite wall and staring guilty holes into his sneakers. He's beet-red, and looks like he's been caught stealing.  
  
  
So much for rumor-quashing.  
  
  
“Em. Good afternoon, Mr. Scott,” the ensign mumbles, at the same time Bones grits out a quelling: “Scotty.”  
  
  
“Afternoon, lads,” Scotty replies, looking and sounding both surprised, and . . .  _amused_ , damn him. The background noise of Deck 18 seems far away, trapped as they are in their own small bubble of tension. Bones can't even think clearly for the way his mouth tingles, and his skin seems to flush hot, then blanch cold. The way that warm ache in his chest seems to have diffused, spread outwards in a corona of warmth, as if the ensign were still all but pressed against him--  
  
  
Finally, Scotty clears his own throat and grins. The bubble of tension punctures painlessly.  
  
  
"I, er. Suppose I can catch the aft, instead. As y'were, gentlemen," he says grandly, laughter in his voice.  Then he about faces back down the corridor without so much as another word. They watch him till he takes a right turn and disappears from sight. Off to tell the rest of engineering, no doubt. There's nothing more gossipy than a gaggle of shipboard engineers.  
  
  
Bones looks at the ensign.  The ensign's watching him back, his eyes widening from teacup, to galaxy-class saucers.  It's enough to make a man wonder if he looks like that after he's had a  _real_  kiss . . . the kind that leaves both parties weak-kneed and shaking.  
  
  
Which is really not something Bones should be wondering about  _ever_. Not if he wants to keep his career, and the respect of his colleagues. He knows from experience neither is easy to win back once lost.  
  
  
“Doctor, I--ai, ai, ai,” the kid laughs breathlessly, clearly about to move closer again, but Bones holds up a hand. The past twelve hours have had far too many twists, turns, and revelations, and he has a feeling he's about to be handed another one. One he needs like a he needs another hole in his head.  
  
  
Now that he has the answers he came looking for, he can get to the mess, and lunch with Jim. Before someone else comes along and misconstrues his nonexistent relationship with this boy. “Look, you'd better get along to your cousin's. The Enterprise's only gonna be here another, uh. . . .” he trails off. The ship's going to be in dock for another seventeen hours or thereabouts. “Well. Have fun.”  
  
  
The dumbly uncomprehending look on the ensign's face is like a punch in the gut. No one as smart and deep-down  _decent_  as this kid is should ever look like this. “But I--”  
  
  
“I'll see ya around. Try and stay out of trouble.” It's better this way, no matter how upset the kid obviously is. Other pieces of the puzzle have been quietly assembling--the corner pieces look a lot like Jim playing matchmaker. And maybe the very last puzzle piece, the one at the very center, will be the way the kid looks at him. Like he can do no wrong. Like assuming the officer the kid has a crush on is female, one of many conclusions Bones shouldn't have jumped to.  
  
  
Like maybe . . . maybe Scotty's not the only one who should take the aft turbo-lift.  
  
  
Bones steps out of the lift, and the ensign follows him. “Sir--please, vait!”  
  
  
“Lunch waits for no man, ensign. Ta-ta.”  
  
  
The ensign's hand lands on his shoulder again, and Bones stops but doesn't look back. Doesn't shrug it off, either, and the kid moves close enough Bones can smell that herbal-mint scent and feel his body heat. “Doctor, vould you . . . you are velcome to come vith me, i-if you like. There is much sight-seeing on the Promenade, and I vould greatly enjoy your company.”  
  
  
“You mean like a date?” Bones lets his tone say what he thinks of  _that_ , and gently shrugs the hand away.  
  
  
“Only if you vant it to be,” the ensign quips just a little too late, and a little too lightly. That sinking feeling from before returns, tenfold. “And anyvay, my cousin vill be there, too."  
  
  
“That's . . . kind of you to offer, ensign, but I think there're gonna be enough rumors flying around about us now, without parading around the Promenade together. Chaperon or not.”  
  
  
“I do not care vhat rumors say. You should not care, either. Sir.” The kid sounds almost angry, and his accent's as thick as pea soup. Bones turns to face him. Catches thunderclouds on a normally sunny face, and sighs.   
  
  
“Maybe not, but  _I do_. I have to. Starfleet's my home and my family. My last chance to get my life on track. Having my peers thinking I'm screwing a seventeen year old ensign doesn't really qualify as getting my life on track--or don't you get that, whiz-kid?”  
  
  
“No, I get it, Doctor,” he says almost gravely, stepping even closer to Bones, who half expects to be kissed again, and this time, it'd be no happy accident. Hell, he has his doubts the first one was all that accidental. “And for the record, I turn eightin six days ago.”   
  
  
Bones shakes his head and chuckles ruefully. “Is that so? Well, congratulations, and happy belated, Mr. Chekov. But that's beside the point, and you know it.”  
  
  
“Then please, vhat  _is_  the point, Doctor?”  
  
  
“The point is, neither of us is in any position have a scandal attached to our names, or a hint of impropriety. At the rate you're going, you're likely to make junior officer inside of six months. I . . . am finally  _exactly_  where I want to be, despite having had more than my share of scandal and impropriety. And no, I'm not gonna tell you, unless  _you_  feel like telling who it is you've got a crush on. Otherwise, don't ask,” Bones adds sharply, and the kid pales, but shuts his mouth quick enough, lending credence to Bones's worst suspicions. “Suffice it to say, I know whereof I speak: this kind of rumor can wreak unbelievable damage to both our reputations even though it's not true. And you may think that damage is something you can handle, but I assure you it isn't.”  
  
  
“You are not my direct superior,” the kid says lowly, slowly, defiance in his posture, his brows furrowed in a frustrated scowl. “You vill  _newer_  be my direct superior. Ve are not in a sexual relationship. There is no impropriety in being my friend! Or is it that you do not  _vant_  to be ewen that?”  
  
  
Bones wonders if he was ever this naive, even when he was the ensign's age, then decides he wasn't. Unlike the ensign, Bones made his stupid mistakes  _despite_  knowing better, not because he simply didn't. “Again, you're missing the point, ensign.  _Are_  or  _are not_  isn't the issue. It's  _perception_  versus  _reality_. A perceived sexual relationship could land us in as much in hot water as a real one. And I don't know about you, but I'm not looking to get demoted, reassigned, or bounced out of Starfleet on account of all the inappropriate sex you and I are  _not having_. And are never  _gonna_  have . . . y'understand?”  
  
  
What Bones sees on the ensign's face before it suddenly becomes as unreadable as a marble statue could be anger. But it looks more like hurt. “Aye, sir! Understood!” As crisp an attention as Bones's ever seen, then the ensign all but marches back onto the turbo-lift, his back straight and stiff, hands balled into fists. He leans against that same spot, and stares at the floor, his jaw clenched tight.  
  
  
“Computer, Deck 8.” The doors start to  _whoosh_  shut, and Bones is there to block them without any yea-nay from his brain. Startled and wary, the ensign looks up. “Sir?”  
  
  
Kicking himself, Bones takes a deep breath. His mouth tastes like spearmint still, and he has no idea what the hell he wants to say, since he's said everything it would be  _wise_  for him to say. But the ensign's stony face is cracking some and that, at least, feels like a check in the  _pro_  column.  
  
  
“Before I forget, you're invited back to the officer's lounge whenever you like--not my doing,” Bones quickly clarifies when the kid's eyes light up--something Bones doesn't object to, except in this case. And only on GP. “Just passing along a message. Shrijn doesn't bend the rules for anyone. You must've made quite an impression on him.”  
  
  
“I . . . don't think  _I_  did. Sir,” the kid says smiling, and that hopeful, puppy-dog look on his face is particularly unnerving if what Bones suspects--okay, is pretty dead-certain about--is true. But it's too late to unsay what's been said, and anyway, it's not his invitation to rescind.  
  
  
“He, uh, also said there's gonna be a big to-do there, tonight, uh . . .  _karaoke_.” Bones crosses his arms. “Should be good for a few laughs, if nothing else.”  
  
  
“How vonderful! I  _love_  karaoke!" the ensign enthuses (earnestly), and Bones thinks:  _it figures_. “Vill . . . vill  _you_  be there, Dr. McCoy?”  
  
  
 _It's like I've been talking to myself. I need a drink. Or six._  “I might, or I might not. Probably that second one. Remember: perception versus reality.”  
  
  
“A-aye, sir! No vone must perceive anyting improper about us.” The ensign nods like a toothy bobble-head doll. "I understand."  
  
  
“'Atta boy,” Bones says with gruff approval, though after the frustrated anger of a minute ago, the kid seems just a little too quick to agree with him.  
  
  
Though what would be the point of being anything  _but_  accommodating, if what he  _thinks_  he wants will never be on the table? Railing against it would just make one appear immature, and though the ensign strikes Bones as being somewhat naive . . . he doesn't seem immature.  
  
  
And who knows? Maybe having seen Bones at his drunken worst--as well as his sober worst--will put a stake in the heart of his infatuation (though whence and why such a thing ever came to be in the first place, is a question to which Bones suspects he'll never have the answer).  
  
  
Thus, completely uncertain whether he's made things better, worse, or much, much worse, Bones nods curtly, and hurries off while the kid's still stammering out a good-bye.  
  
  
Halfway to the aft turbo-lift, Bones realizes he knows who's to blame for this--not for the kid's crush of course, but for encouraging it. For helping it along. For getting the kid into the officer's lounge. For leaving him alone with Bones just long enough for half the shipboard officers to get the wrong idea.  
  
  
For thinking he knows more about what's best for Bones than Bones does.  
  
  
In his mind's eyes, he can see the ensign's bright eyes and unself-conscious smile . . . feel the warm pressure of lips on his own. It would not, he knows, feel wrong to kiss the ensign, and to see where another such kiss might take them. . . .  
  
  
No, it wouldn't  _feel_  wrong at all, but that would be perception. Reality, Bones has learned, can be quite different.  
  
  
 _This is all Jim's fault,_  he thinks grimly, angrily, getting onto the turbo-lift. “Deck 8!”  
  
  
He's got a bone to pick with his best friend and captain, and he means to pick it clean.


	3. Fortune's Favor 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Jim has some 'splainin' to do. Bones is definitely the wife. The view from the Observation Gallery is breath-taking. Shrijn is menacingly sexy. Lieutenant Ziegler's voice . . . oy. Bones dozes off. Ensign Chekov speaks freely. Supper is had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers: Set about six months after the maiden voyage of the Enterprise, and the events of Star Trek. Doesn't deviate from the 11th film canon, spoilers for the movie.

  
"If looks could kill, that muffin'd be toast."  
  
  
Bones hasn't said anything since he sat down with his tray.  Jim's been shooting him concerned looks for nearly five, silent minutes, between slurping up soup and making eyes at a security officer three tables over.  
  
  
Every time Bones's head of steam builds up to unbearable levels, he finds himself picturing the kid's face, all big blue eyes and unrestrained smile, and he knows that if he's angry at Jim, it's still only half as angry as he is at himself.  So he stabs his banana-nut-bran muffin with a Starfleet issue spork and fumes.  
  
  
 _Sporks_ , he thinks glumly, shaking his head.   _It's like being back in goddamned kindergarten, only without Liv Golan whipping up her skirt every time I glance in her direction._  
  
  
"So are you surly because you're hungover, or is there some other reason you're being so intensely  _you_ , today?"  
  
  
"The hangover's fine, Jim."  Bones says on autopilot, but the damn thing's worse than ever.  Has taken on a life of its own.  Should have its own rank and serial number, not to mention be drawing its own salary.  
  
  
More silence while Jim crunches on croutons and sips fake orange drink.  Bones dips a bit of muffin into his plain yogurt. This flavor medley, though normally pleasant, now clashes with the lingering taste of spearmint.  
  
  
"Okay, so you're implying that something else  _isn't_  fine?"  
  
  
"Oh, I'm more than implying."  
  
  
“And of course, flat out telling me why you're pissed off is out of the question? Because stewing in your own cruddy mood is so much more fun!” When Bones finally looks up, Jim's eying the commissary ceiling like a man seeing his future somewhere in its alternating light panels and gunmetal-grey access panels. "I swear, some days, it's like we're married.  And you're the wife."  
  
  
" _You're_  the wife," Bones mutters at his yogurt, and Jim snorts.  
  
  
"I'm not the one who likes having sex with men."  
  
  
Bones covers the stifling of laughter by clearing his throat. "More's the pity."  
  
  
Jim snorts again, but smiles.  "So, I'm guessing things didn't go well with Pavel, last night. Or they went  _too_  well . . . it's really hard to gauge with you, somet--"  
  
  
As if an angry genie's been released from a bottle of discretion, Bones slams his spork down on the grey plastic table, startling Jim, who look gives him a curious, wary look. "You set me up, you jerk!"  
  
  
Heads turn in the mess hall, and Bones bites down on his next words. Jim goes back to his soup as if nothing had been blurted. Indeed, or is still echoing in the large, utilitarian room.  
  
  
A few minutes pass in mutual--in one case stewing--silence before Jim breaks it hesitantly. “About that . . . how  _did_  it go?”  
  
  
"'How'd it go?” Bones tries to keep his tone low and conversational; his muffin isn't faring at all well. "My-sex-life-is-none-of-your-goddamned-business, is how it went!"  
  
  
“But I tell you how  _my_  dates go,” Jim says in his best placate-the-doctor tones.  
  
  
“And I keep asking you not to!” More silence.  More croutons.  More stabbing of innocent muffins . . . the humanity. “I guess now, I'll have to start asking you not to wait till I'm rat-assed to fling clingy jailbait at me, too.”  
  
  
A flicker in Jim's eyes that probably isn't regret. That's an emotion Bones seems destined to feel for the both of them, and at least six other people, besides. “So you're not into him?”  
  
  
“That's not the point!”  
  
  
Jim's eyebrows ascend by a fraction. “So you . . .  _are_  into him?”  
  
  
Bones controls his temper, but only because he refuses to embarrass himself any more than he already has. He holds his hands up and about two feet apart. Shakes the right one. “Here's the point, Jim. And here's you.” He shoots the left one as far away from himself as his arm'll allow.  
  
  
“Ah, I get it. You're into him  _a lot_ , and you don't wanna be.”  
  
  
“I--” Bones sits back and crosses his arms. “You know what? I don't even know why I bother, anymore. You're just gonna hear what you want, anyway.”  
  
  
“No, I don't hear what I want, I hear what you won't let yourself say.” Jim pushes his mostly empty bowl to the side. He's not grinning anymore, doesn't look so much amused as . . . frustrated. “I've known you for four years and I still don't get you, Bones. Don't get why you seem bound and determined to spend the rest of your life miserable and lonely.“  
  
  
“Oh, I'm not miserable and lonely, Jim. I've got you,” Bones says with the kind of poisonous sweetness Ethan had employed almost constantly toward the end. Jim recoils theatrically.  
  
  
“Me-ow.” He takes Bones's yogurt and spork. Fishes out a few bits of muffin, discarding them in the remains of his soup. Then he goes to town, making a bratty face two spoonfuls in. “Ugh--there's no fruit in it!”  
  
  
“After last night, the last thing my body needs is more sugar to metabolize,” Bones grumbles. Then slides his muffin over to Jim, as well. He's not particularly hungry, anyway. “And what makes you think I'm miserable and lonely?”  
  
  
“I dunno, maybe the fact that you are?” Jim levels the spork at Bones, unmindful of the yogurt that plops on the table between them. “And don't tell me you're not. I know you like to think Starfleet is enough for you, but it isn't.”  
  
  
“It is for  _you_.”  
  
  
“But you're not me, as you pointed out last night.” Jim smiles--the nice one, that only slips out when he's talking about something he genuinely loves. “Starfleet's enough for me because the Enterprise is everything I've ever wanted. As long as I have her . . . I'm happy. Anything else is icing on the cake. Nice to have, but I don't miss it if it goes.”  
  
  
“And it's impossible that anyone but Jim Kirk could feel that way about his career, is that it?”  
  
  
“No, it's just impossible that  _you_  could feel that way, and you wanna know why? Because you're a softy. A closet romantic, and not being the grumpier half of a happy couple is eating you up inside.” Jim's voice lowers till it's somewhere between rasp and whisper. Bones shakes his head.  
  
  
“Look, just because I got a little . . . maudlin over that letter, and Ethan--”  
  
  
“Fuck the letter, Bones, and  _fuck_  Ethan Chambers!” Jim says, pounding the table for emphasis. “You're people who need people. You  _need_  to be with someone, like I  _need_  to captain this ship. You need to fall in love with someone  _decent_  and be able to stay that way.”  
  
  
“Even assuming you're right--and I'm conceding no ground on that, this is purely a hypothetical--why on Earth would you think that _you_ , my young, squarely heterosexual friend, were qualified to choose a  _dance_  partner for me, let alone a life partner? And why, by all that's pure and sacred, would you set me up with a boy who's young enough to be my son?”  
  
  
“Age is just a number, Bones.” The empty yogurt bowl gets placed in the soup bowl, and Jim introduces himself to the muffin with a happy little sound. “Besides, if you can't  _find_  a good man, raise one.”  
  
  
“That is  _not_  funny! They have  _prisons_  for--for people who fuck children, Jim!" Bones whispers. Jim seems unimpressed. Merely takes another bite of muffin and looks inscrutably vacant. It's intolerable. "Is that it? Do you  _want_  to see me go to prison?"  
  
  
“Don't be so melodramatic. Or--be melodramatic, but maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere a little more private?”  
  
  
“Y'think?” Bones stands up, and Jim joins him. Grabs the last of the muffin, winks at the security officer, and leads the way out of the mess.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The view from the Deck 17 Observation Gallery is stunningly empty.  
  
  
No profusion of stars on display, no glowing whirls of space dust and gases. The Laurentian system is something of a backwater, as star systems go--more so even than Sol. A starry night on any one of its planets isn't something to write home about. The bright, busy universe exists at a far remove.  
  
  
It's exactly that starkness that's so fascinating. Even in a crowded space dock, one can feel toweringly alone while contemplating this particular view from this particular Gallery. One can even, briefly, forget that anything else (including oneself) exists but distant galaxies and the vast gulfs between them. . . .  
  
  
Bones has heard several crew members label the view 'dreary', and 'empty'. He's heard some grumble that it's less than inspiring. All of which is true, but it's also  _restful_ , and Bones tends to need rest a hell of a lot more than he needs inspiration.  
  
  
The Gallery itself is a spacious, dimly-lit place, studded with clusters of chairs and sofas, upholstered in sound-muffling greys, charcoals and blacks. Like the universe it looks out upon, it, too, is mostly empty. The few other people here are individuals clearly looking for alone-time, or couples looking for a place to be obnoxiously enamored of each other.  
  
  
Across from him, in a similar chair, Jim watches him with patient eyes.  
  
  
"I didn't have sex with him," Bones says absently, burrowing deeper into his chair. Even if he had an eye for constellations, at this distance and vantage point, he wouldn't recognize anything familiar. Another thing that makes being a Starfleet ship's doctor more attractive than being its planet-bound equivalent. If nothing else, the constant strangeness is distracting. Bigger than all the personal problems one might have.  
  
  
"I know you didn't, Bones. Knew you  _wouldn't_  . . . but you wish you had," Jim says, and it's not quite a question.  
  
  
"Jim, if wishes were horses--" Bones sighs, his gaze ticking from one beguiling view to another. He takes a moment to put the reins on his tongue. "I mean . . . damnit, you're an asshole, you know.”  
  
  
“This is already common knowledge.” Jim grins and kicks Bones's shoe lightly. “Look, there's nothing to be ashamed of here, Bones. Nothing wrong with  _wanting_  someone.”  
  
  
Bones closes his eyes and wishes he were back in his own bed, the covers pulled up to his hairline. “There is if the someone you want--not that I do--is a child. . . .”  
  
  
A rude noise drifts over from Jim's direction. “His acceptance into Starfleet Academy was instant emancipation. He's not a child.”  
  
  
“Just because he's legal in the eyes of the law doesn't make him an adult. Doesn't make it right that someone my age should want--” Bones pinches the bridge of his nose. “I appreciate that you're concerned about me, and that you want me to be happy. But this, Jim . . . this was a bad idea. There's already fallout.”  
  
  
SmartLeather™ creaks as Jim shifts around. When Bones peeks out from under his lashes, Jim's sitting up, and forward intently. “Fallout?”  
  
  
“Oh, yeah. I went to see the ensign today, and--"  
  
  
"I thought you weren't into him?"  
  
  
Bones opens his eyes again, long enough to glare. "Were you actually interested in what I'm trying to tell you, or did you just wanna interject smart-aleck comments every five seconds?”  
  
  
Jim subsides, raising his hands in conciliation. “My apologies, Mrs. Kirk. Please continue.”  
  
  
Ignoring the snark, Bones closes his eyes again. “ _Anyway_. I stopped by his quarters to get . . . clarification on some things that happened last night at the lounge. Long story short,” he continues quickly, sensing that Jim's about to ask for some clarification, himself. “Ensign Chekov and I got drunk, last night.  Started singing.  Lieutenant Caswell took issue with an ensign in the officer's lounge, and implied that the only reason Mr. Chekov was there was because I was screwing him. Apparently--according to the ensign, since I'm drawing blank on everything that happened after our first few shots--I wasn't about to stand for that kind of insubordination from a knuckle-dragger, and I put him in his place.  _Magneeficently_  and  _chiwalrously_ , even. Now, everyone thinks the ensign and I are a couple."  
  
  
“Huh." More creaking as Jim settles back into his chair. "Kind of a shaky conclusion to jump to, if  _that's_  all that happened."  
  
  
Bones hesitates. Knows he's not going to get away with being vague, and even if he did, Jim'd hear about all of it sooner or later.  Maybe after someone's anonymous complaint crossed his desk.  And then what would he think of Bones?  
  
  
"Well, I . . . may have--in the heat of the moment--grabbed the ensign's hand while dressing Caswell down." When he opens his eyes, Jim's are wide with surprise, and he's grinning.  The stupid used car salesman, frat-boy grin that Bones would much rather smack off than kiss off.  "I admit, I may have gone overboard in my defense of a member of the crew, but that hardly warrants--"  
  
  
"You really  _like_  him, don't you?"  Jim laughs wonderingly, leaning forward again, his voice pitched low.  "I mean, I could spot the kid's crush from a mile off, have been for months--even Spock noticed--but I really didn't think  _you_ 'd get to the stand-by-your-man stage so qui--"  
  
  
"Hold on--you've been talking about my sex life with that green-blooded automaton?! Jesus, Jim!"  At least Jim has the grace to look uncomfortable, if not sorry.  "You know, I was worried that the hand-holding would be the thing that cemented this ridiculousness in the minds of the crew. And if not that, then Scotty telling engineering--same as telling the entire goddamn Fleet--about us kissing in the turbo-lift would surely be the final nail in the coffin. But no! No, thanks to  _you_ , Spock's probably already logged a formal grievance with Starfleet Command!"  
  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on yourself, Dr. McCoy!” Jim shakes his head as if he's misheard. “Did you say you were  _kissing_  Pavel Chekov, and Scotty saw you? When did this happen?"  
  
  
Bones clears his throat and finds himself contemplating the view once more. He hopes the dim lighting means Jim can't see the awful red his face is turning. "I . . . was walking him to the transporter room after our talk, we were on the turbo-lift, and he was thanking me for taking Caswell down a peg.  Next thing I know, he's crossed the lift, and planted one on my cheek. Then he was going for the other cheek and missed, and hit my mouth, instead."  Bones sighs, unaware that it sounds more wistful than put-upon.  "Of course that's when the doors open, and Scotty's standing there, doing his best impersonation of a large-mouth bass, and likely leaping to every wrong conclusion it'd be possible to leap to."  
  
  
 _But not entirely wrong,_  he silently admits, remembering the several seconds between the ensign's mouth on his own, and the doors whooshing open. It's nobody's fault but his own that Scotty saw what he saw.  
  
  
"That's. . . .” Jim shakes his head again, this time in what appears to be wonder. “No offense, Bones, but that's . . . the cutest first kiss story I've ever heard. You two're just adorable.” He chuckles and Bones fumes, wondering if he'd get a reprimand for throttling his captain. "But in light of Pavel's feelings, do I really have to point out to you that that kiss wasn't at all accidental? I mean,  _no one_  is that naive.  Except maybe you."  
  
  
"Oh, I'm naive, am I? Adorable? Well, we'll see how adorable I am when Starfleet tosses me out like last week's recycling for boinking a seventeen year old ensign who--by the way--I goddamn well am  _not boinking_!"  
  
  
"Easy, Bones.” Jim glances around them, making sure no one's paying them any mind, but Bones is beyond caring. Everyone's going to know by the time the Enterprise is out of dock, thanks to a few chatty-cathys, namely the one sitting across from him. “Actually, he's eighteen, now.  And this is still my ship.  If you and Pavel decided you want to be together for keeps--or just be friends-with-benefits till something better comes along--as long whatever happens between you is consensual, and doesn't effect your performance in Sickbay or on the Bridge, respectively, no one's going to hassle you about what you do in your off hours. You have my word."  
  
  
Bones leans his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose again for a few moments. Nothing tries his patience more than Jim being helpful. "Damnit, it's not that easy. On any other ship in the Fleet--"  
  
  
"But you're  _not_  on any other ship in the Fleet, Bones.  You're on  _my_  ship. You're on the  _Enterprise_."  And that statement would sound arrogant and irresponsible, but that the reverence in Jim's voice far outweighs any arrogance or irresponsibility. Bones knows for a fact that to Jim, the Enterprise is more than his commission.  It's the impossible becoming possible.  It's the underdog winning against high odds.  
  
  
It's everything Jim's ever wanted, and it makes him happier than Bones's ever seen him.  And when Jim's happy, he wants everyone around him to be happy too.  Even if he has to break arms to get them there.  
  
  
Sighing, he takes a few moments to think over what he wants to say, even though he knows once Jim's made up his mind about something, Heaven and Earth couldn't move it, let alone one doctor. "Listen, it's not that I don't appreciate your willingness to stick up for mine and the ensign's tragic romance, but--there's nothing to stick up for, and there never will be.  He's a sweet kid, but he's still just a kid.  I was walking down the aisle for the first time before he learned to walk! By the time he learned to read, Mary Jo and I were already seeing divorce law--"  
  
  
"So, you obviously liked the kiss, or you wouldn't be freaking out quite this much."  Jim cuts into the beginning of what would be a really impressive rant, and Bones wants to deny it, but can't quite.  He's never been able to lie to Jim--has never really tried.  
  
  
Has never  _needed_  to, for any reason, and doesn't suppose a silly little kiss is reason enough to start now.  
  
  
"Jim . . . it's been years.  Of course I liked the kiss,” he admits quietly. “Ensign Chekov could've bit my tongue bloody, and I'd have still liked it. But as I told  _him_ , that's beside the point.  The point is, we're stationed on the same ship and there's a huge discrepancy not only between our respective ranks but our  _ages_ , and--damnit, Jim! The only difference between me and a pedophile is the six days since the ensign's last birthday!"  
  
  
"Oh, now you're just being ridiculous!"  Jim scoffs gently. "Legally, he's an adult.  Has been since he was fourteen. And he's eighteen, now. Not only is there grass on the playing field, but the playing field is zoned and ready for a game! So play ball!"  
  
  
"Well, whoop-de-do,” Bones deadpans. “Stepping over your vaguely disgusting sports metaphor, that, too, is beside the point."  
  
  
"There's a shocker. You know, those Vulcan Elders whose lives he saved, not to mention mention Spock, Sulu, and myself, don't consider him a child. In fact, you're probably the only person in the known universe who  _doesn't_  accept that he's an adult who knows what he wants. And is man enough to go after it," Jim adds, with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and definitely doesn't take the sting out of a rather unsubtle, but uncomfortably accurate dig.  
  
  
"You don't understand, Jim--you are  _purposely_  not understanding where I'm coming from. . . ."  
  
  
"Oh? And where  _are_  you coming from, Bones?"  Jim leans forward again.  His eyes are a very different blue from Ensign Chekov's.  "I understand, that after four years of living like a monk, pushing away every guy that shows even the slightest interest in you, you finally,  _finally_  want someone back. But you're too much of a coward to take the risk.  And don't--" Jim adds when Bones opens his mouth to deny every bit of what Jim just said "--gimme that crap about Starfleet regs.  As you so eloquently put it, we're on a spaceship, in space.  We're human . . . for the most part . . . and we have needs.  We're all adults here, no matter our ages.  We've proven with time and experience that we're mature enough to handle every facet of life on a Constitution-class starship.  So again, no offense, Bones--but you're full of shit."  
  
  
" _I'm_  full of shit? Oh, get off your goddamned high horse,  _Cap'n_!” Bones grits out, leaning forward himself, the last vestiges of his hangover making his eyeballs throb. “While you've been busy playing cupid, have you stopped to think that maybe getting saddled, however briefly, with a bitter, twice-divorced curmudgeon is not something Ensign Chekov deserves so early in his life--or ever?  That maybe he should be sniffing around someone with much less baggage and fewer bad habits?”  
  
  
Jim heaves a genuinely weary sigh. "Pavel Chekov is a man, and one who knows very well what he wants. I think that's what scares you."  
  
  
"And now we're down to ad hominem attacks. Classy. Look, knowing what one wants isn't the same as having a clue as to what one will actually get.” A glance out the window shows a universe more distant and dim than it'd been just a few minutes ago. "Maybe  _you_  don't understand, Jim, but I've  _been_  where the ensign is right now, pinning my heart and my hopes on an older man in a position of power. Frankly, I wouldn't wish what happened to me on a Romulan I despised, let alone on Ensign Chekov."  
  
  
Jim struggles his way out of the chair and walks over to Bones. Lays a hand on his shoulder, and waits till Bones looks up at him.  "I understand what it's like to want to protect someone you care about from his own worst instincts.  I also understand that you deserve a chance to be happy more than anyone I've ever met, and that you'd sooner cut your right arm off than break that kid's heart. So how 'bout you stop being contrary and take a leap of faith. I  _promise you_ , Bones, you won't be sorry."  
  
  
He sounds so sure, but then . . . he's  _Jim_. He never sounds anything  _but_  sure. Especially these days. And though he's usually content to follow where Jim leads--or directs, in this case--Bones simply shakes his head and turns his gaze once more to the view. He envies this sector its serene, uncaring emptiness. "Or how 'bout I keep my arm, he keeps his heart, and everyone goes on with their merry lives?  How's that sound?"  
  
  
Jim throws up his hands in frustration. "I dunno, Bones, how  _does_  it sound?"  
  
  
He stalks past in fine fettle, leaving Bones to stare morosely at the most breath-taking view he's ever seen.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
It was a quiet, blessedly uneventful afternoon, and is shaping up to be a similarly uneventful--and alcohol free--evening.  
  
  
He is showered, and dressed not in a rumpled uniform he'll pass out in, but in his boxers and a t-shirt. He's got his copy of  _Phlox: The Legend, The Doctor_  waiting on his PADD, and the door to his quarters set to  **Emergency Override Only**.  
  
  
It's exactly 21:00 hours, and Dr. Leonard McCoy is ostentatiously ready for an early night in.  
  
  
So it's especially frustrating when, exactly twenty-seven minutes later, he finds himself sprawled flat on his back, glaring up at the lighting panels.  His PADD is tossed on his night table.  Hasn't even been turned on . . . unlike the doctor, who is unsuccessfully willing away the most will-resistant erection he's ever had.  
  
  
"Go away," he tells it crabbily, and not for the first time.  
  
  
Not for the first time, it doesn't listen.  
  
  
Normally, he doesn't have a problem with taking matters into his own hands.  (He's had  _four years_  of nothing but that.) But he knows good and well who he'll be stroking off to tonight, and it won't be to any holo-stars.  Not to a face or body or scenario from any of the widely-varied pornography that's discreetly available on every Constitution-class Starfleet vessel's database.  
  
  
Not even to Jim, who's always good for a guilty thrill.  
  
  
No, he won't be imagining any of  _these_  familiar stand-bys.  The face he'll be seeing will be far too young, far too innocent, and smile at him like he's the greatest thing since latinum.  Bright blue eyes will stare into his own, and tell him he's  _mag-NEE-ficent_.  Soft lips will cover his face in kisses, and he'll imagine his hand is the ensign's body, clenched around him.  
  
  
That the ensign will bite his lower lip and moan a breathy  _oh, Doctor_  when he comes--  
  
  
"Ah, crap.  Mister, one of these days, I'm gonna have you surgically removed," he tells his undeterred erection as he shimmies off his shorts, and grabs it roughly.  He's angry, frustrated, not in the least relaxed, and in no mood to play nice.  
  
  
His erection is more than fine with that.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Bones pauses outside the doors to the officers' lounge--just far enough away that the sensors don't open them--and runs a hand down his sweater.  It's shapeless, and a bit threadbare, but comfortable, like the faded jeans he's wearing.  
  
  
It's the kind of outfit one wears to fix a dirty engine on a cold day, not to meet someone in a climate controlled lounge. Not that Bones is here to meet anyone. . . .  
  
  
But still, he decides, that's no reason to look like he just rolled out of bed.  Which he just did, but that's neither here nor there.  
  
  
Smoothing his hair--which has a tendency to hedgehog in the back once he's laid down--he takes a deep breath and steps forward.  
  
  
He's momentarily halted by a wall of sound: Lieutenant Ziegler's enthusiastically belted out a rendition of  _The House of The Rising Sun_.  
  
  
"My God, if we could turn that into torpedoes, we'd crush the Romulans  _and_  the Klingons like ants," Bones mutters, hunching his shoulders under the aural onslaught. He steps into the surprisingly full lounge--there's more than one ensign here on the arm of more than one officer--and doors behind him close. Bones takes a moment to let his eyes and ears adjust before scanning groups of people as casually as possible. . . .  
  
  
Sees many familiar faces, but not the face he expected to see.  
  
  
 _And that's a good thing,_  he tells himself. He also tells himself that the gnawing-churning in his gut isn't disappointment, but the last of the previous night's hangover. Or maybe just the sudden relief of finding out the whiz-kid is living up to his nickname, and doing the smart thing: keeping his distance.  
  
  
But it's not disappointment.  
  
  
 _Things are going my way, for once.  I should celebrate with copious volumes of alien liquor,_  he thinks with grim, forced cheer. He eases through the moderately crowded room, to the bar. It's standing room only, and Shrijn is pouring whiskey and wine expressionlessly (he doesn't make mixed drinks, but he makes the people who ask for them very sorry they asked).  His antennae are once more pointed at Bones, even though his gaze is alternating between the drinks and Lieutenant Ziegler.  
  
  
If looks could kill, she'd be toast, too.  
  
  
“I take it you're not so keen on Karaoke Wednesdays anymore?” Bones shouts by way of greeting, elbowing aside a tall, willowy Trill, who calls him something that would probably be offensive, if Bones spoke Trill at all.  
  
  
"As you Humans are fond of saying: no good deed goes unpunished. What may I get for you and the young  _en-chan_ , Doctor?" Shrijn doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't have to--it's low enough to cut under the high-pitched caterwauling that's dominating the room.  
  
  
"More Andorian amnesia, if you please.  And yours truly is flying  _en-chan_  free from now on, my friend."  
  
  
"A pity."  Shrijn says, antenna twitching a little, even as he pours a generous shot of Andorian brandy.  Bones considers telling him to leave the bottle, though after last night, he knows Shrijn probably wouldn't.  "He's rather charming, your ensign."  
  
  
"Eh.  If you like that type.  Which I don't. And he's not 'my ensign' . . . never was."  Bones is reaching for the first glass, when Shrijn magics up another and pours an equally generous shot.  
  
  
"Hot damn, I love a proactive bartender," Bones says gratefully, knocking back his first and reaching for his second. Shrijn smacks his hand away, and drinks the shot himself--no wince, like he's drinking water.  So help him, Bones's always had a weakness for men who can hold their liquor.  One of the many reasons it'd never work between he and Jim.  "Shrijn, you big, blue god--will you marry me?"  
  
  
“Certainly not. You wouldn't know what to do with me, if you had me.” Shrijn's cool, mildly disdainful gaze finally meet Bones's, and the antennae go flat to either side of his head.   "But you  _are_  casting your amorous net wide lately, Doctor."  
  
  
"Variety is the spice of life. My dear Grand-Mama used to say that frequently.  She was a wise old dame."  He holds his glass up for another.  Shrijn pours it, and actually  _smiles_. Darkly, rather mysteriously, but smiles.  
  
  
“She sounds like an insightful woman. For a Human.”  
  
  
“Mm.” Bones usually isn't  _interested_  in aliens, no matter how human they look, but he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he's starting to find Shrijn . . . kinda sexy.  In an intimidating, slightly eerie way.  And the fact that Shrijn's lips are what Jim would refer to as  _DSL_ s definitely appeals to Bones's recently resurrected libido. " _You_  are a gentleman, and a scholar, sir.  If you won't marry me, wanna at least take me out for a trial run tonight?"  
  
  
Eyes the color of a drowning-pool regard him as if he's prey too stupid to recognize a predator. "Were you unattached, I very well might, flippant though your invitation is."  
  
  
"Damnit, man, I  _am_  unattached!"  Bones drains his glass again.  Has a what-would-Jim-say-to-seal-this-deal? moment.  "C'mon, the USS McCoy is currently accepting passengers!"  
  
  
At this, Shrijn actually  _laughs_ \--long, low, and a little evilly--and Bones momentarily feels as if he's about to be lashed to metaphoric railroad tracks.  
  
  
Still, Shrijn laughing is so unprecedented a thing that many heads turn to watch it.  Bones is willing to bet they'll all be telling their grand-children the story of how someone once made an Andorian laugh.  
  
  
"Dr.  McCoy. While I've made no secret of the fact that I find you . . . attractive, for a Human--"  
  
  
"You  _haven't_?” Bones narrows his eyes, trying to remember their previous interactions, and any signs of this alleged attraction he might've missed. Not that he'd know what they are. While he's familiar with Andorian physiology, like many other species, they're rather close-mouthed about their sexual habits, and responses to sexual stimuli. “Well, that's certainly news to me!"  
  
  
“I imagine it would be. You're distressingly unobservant, for a doctor.” Another fleeting smile.  "As I said before, if at any point in the future, you should find yourself unattached, I will reconsider your suit.  In the meantime, I have no interest in being a substitute for someone you haven't the spine to pursue."  
  
  
"Now wait just a goddamn minute--" slams his glass down on the bar, and Shrijn's dark eyes shift to the right, over Bones's shoulder.  
  
  
"It might interest you to know your  _en-chan_  just walked in.”  
  
  
Bones spins toward the door and nearly falls over from too much brandy, too fast, his heart-rate picking up as he tries to see over and around shifting groups of people.  
  
  
It's most of a minute before he realizes the ensign's not at the door, and never was. He feels like a fool.  
  
  
He's almost too embarrassed to face Shrijn again, but he does. The Andorian's regained his usual expressionless composure, and is eying the stage and whoever's gotten up to take Lieutenant Ziegler's place on it. Even his antennae are focused elsewhere: on the willowy Trill who digs Bones in the ribs savagely with her pointy elbow as she bellies up and names her poison. Seconds later, Shrijn gives it to her without acknowledging her presence in any other way.  
  
  
" _En-chan_  free, indeed,” he says as the Trill and her Rixxian tonic water disappear into the crowd. His eyes flick to Bones for just a moment, and they don't soften, but neither is his face as haughty and impatient as usual. “Perhaps you should find a booth and try not to stare at the doors too much.  If your ensign puts in an appearance, I'll send him your way."   
  
  
Bones knows he should say  _no, don't bother.  He's not my_ en-chan, or simply leave.  But, summarily dismissed, he mutters his thanks and instead slinks off to a shadowy booth near the back to sit.  And--though he can't quite admit it to himself--to wait.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
"Doctor?"  
  
  
At the soft voice, Bones jerks up off the table, upon which he'd been sound asleep.  The lounge spins just a bit, but settles quickly enough.  It's then that Bones notices the hand resting lightly on his own.  Said hand belongs to none other than Bones's very own personal  _en-chan_ , smiling at him like he's done something wonderful.  
  
  
"Ensign."  Immediately awake, Bones attempts to covertly check his face for drool.  Negative, but he has a horrible suspicion he's been snoring.  "Must've closed my eyes for a moment.  What time is it?"  
  
  
"Almost 01:00 hours, sir."  
  
  
"Crap.  You should be in bed.  Hell, we both should."  At the wicked glint in the ensign's normally guileless eyes, Bones rolls his own.  "You know what I meant.  Christ, you're as bad as Jim."  
  
  
The ensign laughs. "I did not mean to show up so late, sir.  'Mila and I vent dancing, and, vell--that place newer closes.  It is easy to lose track of time. I . . . vas not sure you vould still be here.  I hoped, of course. . . ."  
  
  
"Well, you shouldn't have."  Bones notices the ensign's hand is still covering his own, and slides it away. The lounge is mostly empty, now, and no one's sitting near them, but still. "You shouldn't have hoped, and I shouldn't have come here."  
  
  
The ensign looks down at their hands, now separated by several inches of table, but doesn't attempt to bridge the distance.  Looks up into Bones's eyes again.  "Maybe ve should not have, but ve did."  
  
  
Unwilling to concede this very valid point, Bones stands up stiffly.  Everything that can get a crick, has one.  Or possibly two.  He stretches and contorts to little avail.  "What can I say . . . I'm a sucker for shitty renditions of pre-Warp music.”  
  
  
The ensign's watching Bones's impromptu calisthenics with unhidden interest and amusement.  "Have you eaten supper, yet?  If not, neither have I. Vould you care to join me?"  
  
  
Bones stops stretching and sits again, glowering in disapproval.  "Look, kid, in case you've suffered a traumatic head injury since last we met, you and I even acknowledging the existence of one another is a bad idea!  Possibly the worst idea ever!"  
  
  
But the ensign's grown himself quite a pair between last night and tonight.  He doesn't let Bones intimidate him.  "I did not ask vhether it vas a bad idea or not, I asked  _v-vould you care to join me in the commissary for a late supper_?"  
  
  
At a loss for words, Bones merely stares at the kid, who stares right back, though his face turns a painful-looking red. "You know, technically, this is harassment!"  
  
  
The ensign rolls  _his_  eyes.  "It's late. No vone vill be there to notice, or make gossip except the attendant, and she does not care.  _Please_.  It's just supper, Doctor."  
  
  
"But supper's not all you want, is it?"  
  
  
"No, that is  _not_  all I van't.” The ensign puts his hand on Bones's again, and slides closer in the booth, not meeting Bones's eyes. “I vant to be your lower.”  
  
  
Bones shakes his head and start to remove his hand once more. But the ensign doesn't let him. The eyes that finally meet his flash with an emotion intense enough to be anger, but it isn't. Not quite. Bones closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Look, kid, I _told_  you--”  
  
  
“I  _know_  vhat you told me, sir . . . permission to speak freely?”  
  
  
“You mean you  _haven't_  been?” Bones laughs a bit desperately as the ensign turns his hand palm up and clasps it. That bright non-anger is still shining in his gaze, and this has MISTAKE written all over it in red ink, but-- “Alright then, ensign. Granted, though I'm certain I'll regret--”  
  
  
 _ **MISTAKE** , indeed,_ Bones thinks as his next words get muffled by the ensign's warm, wet mouth on his own.   
  
  
He no longer tastes like spearmint, but like fruit, sugar, and chemicals--like one of those ghastly energy drinks that do nothing but jangle the nerves and rot the teeth. But Bones finds he doesn't mind the taste at all, right now, as the kid's tongue surges into his mouth like a heat-seeking missile.  
  
  
There's no build to the kiss . . . nothing like technique. The kid just goes right for Bones's tonsils with the kind of single-minded intensity that's probably stood him in good stead all his life. Which of course doesn't make him a particularly good kisser, but what he lacks in technique he makes for with flattering enthusiasm.  
  
  
The hand clasping Bones's is shaking just a little, squeezing too tight. His other hand touches Bones's face tentatively, and their knees brush.  
  
  
It's then Bones realizes that as he's been analyzing the kid's lack of technique, he himself has been taking gradual control of the kiss, easing it toward something slower, gentler, a little less ambitious. Breaking it very briefly, every so often, so they can both breathe. Teasing with lips and teeth and tongue, till the kid starts catching on.  
  
  
Teaching by example, as it were, and Ensign Chekov's not only a quick study, but he applies himself with more of that single-minded zeal. Sooner than Bones could've anticipated, the ensign's controlling the kiss again, with ardor and finesse, and. . . .  
  
  
Bones pulls away with some difficulty and no little reluctance, breathing heavily, lips tingling and wet. “Permission un-granted! Christ!”  
  
  
“Doctor. . . .” the ensign moans, all half-closed eyes and swollen lips. He leans closer, tugging on Bones hand--which Bones yanks away. Scoots as far along the booth as he can without falling out on his ass, the kid following determinedly.  
  
  
“As you were, Ensign!  _As you were_!” Bones yelps--no,  _commands_ , and the kid stops. Sighs, and scoots back himself, looking chastened. “That's enough of that, thank you very much! Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go pass out someplace where Shrijn can't roust me awake with a sharp stick."  
  
  
“Vait, sir! I--I apologize for my forvardness. Vhatever else I may vant from you, friendship is all I vill let myself hope for, and I vill be grateful for simply that in the future.”  _Though it vill not be easy,_  those puppy-dog eyes seem to say.  
  
  
If he were a softy, Bones would melt under such a sad and earnest gaze. But he's not, despite what Jim thinks. So he crosses his arms and huffs.  
  
  
“Horseshit. That's not the kiss of someone who's planning on contenting himself with friendship.” Bones takes a few deep, calming breaths. His heart's still beating wildly and even though he's over-heated, he's ever  _so_  glad he wore his baggy old clothes. "You're just hoping in time, you'll wear me down."  
  
  
The ensign holds that grave face for a few moments, then grins sheepishly. He's . . . incredibly fetching when he does that. Infernally kissable. "I, uh, vould newer hope that, sir."  
  
  
"My Aunt Fanny you wouldn't!"  Bones snaps, and the ensign's grin turns almost coy.  
  
  
"This is not an admission of guilt, but . . . vere I to be trying such a thing . . . vould it vork?"  
  
  
"Not even a little," Bones says, just easily enough the kid should buy it.  However, it doesn't appear that he does.  If anything, he looks even more encouraged than when Jim had clapped him on the shoulder last night.  "Look, I think you're a smart, talented, earnest kid who'll probably break his fair share of hearts, in time. But mine isn't gonna be one of them. I'll gladly consider you a friend, and if you ever need help or guidance from me, you've got it. But that's as far as it goes--as far as it will  _ever_  go."  
  
  
“Vith all due respect, you are wrong, sir. I vould newer break anyvone's heart--most especially yours. Though I suppose you vill newer believe me.” The ensign swallows, and looks at the table. His hand and Bones's couldn't be any further apart, now. "May I presume upon your generous offer of friendship as far as a late supper?"  
  
  
Bones looks around at the nearly empty lounge.  There are three low-ranking security officers arguing over drink choices at the bar. Shrijn is watching the officers with a thunderously resentful expression and writhing antennae. If there's one thing the Andorian doesn't like, it's wishy-washy time-wasters.  
  
  
Lieutenant Uhura and Helmsman Sulu are sitting in another corner, speaking quietly.  
  
  
Two engineers are getting awful friendly in a booth near the impromptu “stage”.  
  
  
No one seems to be watching Bones and the ensign.  Nevertheless. . . .  
  
  
"You may. But only because we're gonna wind up in the same place, anyway. And I'm going on the record as having said: this is extremely ill-advised, Ensign. Though I guess the damage is already well and truly done, now."  Bones admits with a little asperity as he stands up.  The ensign gazes up at him with lambent blue eyes. His lips are still red and inviting. . . .  
  
  
“If ve started obwiously awoiding each other, it vould probably look vorse than if ve vere seen in public together--in a strictly platonic vay, of course,” he adds meekly, and stands, too. Suddenly blushes again, and tugs down on the hem of his eye-watering turtleneck. "Sorry, sorry, sir."  
  
  
"It's an involuntary response, kid. Believe me: I know where you're coming from." Bones steadfastly keeps his eyes above waist-level, wondering just what the hell he's doing. The damage may already be done. The crew may already think he and the ensign are a couple. It may even be as Jim says, that no one shipboard, nor Starfleet Command would care nearly as much about the sex lives of its doctors and ensigns as Bones imagines they would, but--  
  
  
The ensign's given up tugging on his shirt, but is still quite red. Especially his lips. Bones knows that if he said the word, he could have the kid naked and writhing in his bed in less than ten minutes. Could be turning that pale chest into a road-map of love bites. Could be licking and sucking that hair-trigger blush response right out of him.  
  
  
Could be going where he's dead-certain no man has gone before. . . .  
  
  
And maybe some of what he's thinking shows on his face, because the kid swallows again, his eyes wide, his breath coming shallow and fast through parted lips. “Dr. McCoy?”  
  
  
 _In for a penny, goddamnit. . . ._  
  
  
Bones groans silently, tugging down on his own sweater surreptitiously. He makes for the exit without preamble, and the kid hurries to catch up. “Well, if we're going, let's not dawdle. My stomach's so empty, it's starting to think my throat's been cut.”  
  
  
“Aye, sir!”  
  
  
Shoulders and hands brushing--not entirely by accident, even on Bones's part--they exit the lounge, unremarked, except for the swivel and wave of Shrijn's antennae.  
  



	4. His Own Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotty's been holding in the news for most of a day. He canna hold it in much longer! Scotty/Sulu. Mentions of McCoy/Chekov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for XI. A companion piece to Fortune's Favor, but can be read as a standalone.

“Ye'll never guess who  _your_  best mate was snogging!”  
  
  
Hikaru pauses on the second to last of the steps leading down into Main Engineering, looking at Scotty as if he's gone barking.  
  
  
“Uh--” he says, brow furrowing, and he's bloody  _adorable_  when he's confused, but this isn't the time. Scotty tugs him down the last steps, looking around to see if there's anyone near. Granted, most of his engineers are either abed, singing karaoke in the officers' lounge--or out soaking up the Promenades. But the few that're as obsessive about Her Majesties guts as Scotty is, have ears like bats. And no qualms about spreading gossip faster than grass spreads a wildfire.  
  
  
"'Good evening, Sulu', is how most people greet me, or 'hey, Hikaru'. But not you--and I think that's what I like most about you: this refusal to operate on the same plane of reality as everyone else,” Hikaru says wistfully, but lets himself be dragged hither and thither.  
  
  
And  _that's_  one of the many things Scotty likes--maybe even  _loves_  about Hikaru Sulu: he's nigh unflappable.  
  
  
“Oh, dinna be s' high maintenance--I saw  _them_  snogging in the forward lift like a coupla teenagers! Well, Pavel  _is_  a teenager, but McCoy's gotta be twice his age!” Scotty pauses his run-on whisper to look around them again. Still no one, not even Keenser. Serendipity lives. “It's been drivin' me  _mad_  since noon, holding it in. But Pavel's age did give me pause, and--well, t' be honest, I dinna wanna run the risk of brassing off McCoy, either. Y' shoulda seen the look he gave me-- _daggers_! Ye're the only person I _dare_  tell! Mark my words, if those two are nae shagging, they soon will be!”  
  
  
He pauses expectantly for The Reaction. Hikaru and Pavel have been mates since the kid's first year in the Academy--they couldn't be closer if they were brothers. Or lovers--which Scotty knows they never were, and in Hikaru's case at least, never inclined to be. But jealousy picks strange times to rear its ugly head. Like when someone you'd never glanced twice at starts glancing at someone else. . . .  
  
  
And so, Scotty braces himself for it: at last, he'll see the unflappable flap. Not over him, Scotty, but over a spastic slip of a boy who is clearly a masochist if he's pursuing  _Leonard McCoy_.  
  
  
“Huh.” Hikaru's brow furrows again. Thoughtfully, aye, but not in any way surprised or dismayed. And while Scotty is more than relieved at that latter, he's immensely puzzled about the former. “Guess he took the Captain's advice, after all.”  
  
  
Mouth hanging open in a probably unattractive gape, Scotty shakes his head. “Who whats the when? I mean-- _what_?”  
  
  
“Well, I told him that, with a guy like McCoy, he'd be better off sneaking in under his radar, and getting to know him slowly. But you know the Captain . . . Kirk told him to be a go-getter-Greg, and 'fortune favors the bold'--yadda-yadda.” Hikaru rolls his eyes, but smiles. “Guess he was right, though. Or McCoy is  _way_  easier than any of us would've thought.”  
  
  
It takes even Scotty's mind a few moments to process this considerable--for someone as generally close-mouthed as Hikaru--glaiber, and translate it into something that makes actual sense.  
  
  
“You--you  _knew_  they've been steppin' out together?” he finally asks. The  _and you didn't tell me?_  is silent, but heavily implied.  
  
  
Hikaru looks a little pained, but unapologetic. “I knew Pavel had a crush on the doctor, and that he was about to make a move. That's it.”  
  
  
“And y'didnae--” Scotty lowers his voice again. It climbs the registers quickly, if he isn't careful. “Y'didnae think that'd be a tale worth telling?”  
  
  
“I thought it was Pavel's--or McCoy's--tale to tell, if tale there was,” Hikaru says, his eyebrows raised in that way that means they're treading on the relatively small matter of unbending principles, and Scotty had better get over it, sharpish. . . .  
  
  
“Oh, fine. Fine, fine, fine,” he grumbles, pretending he doesn't see the beginnings of  _that_  smile. The one that means Hikaru is pleased with him. He's no pushover to be moved by a mere  _smile_ , nae matter how much faster it makes his heart beat. “I'll keep m' mouth shut--nane shall hear about their wee, secret romance from yours truly. There . . . happy?”  
  
  
“Ecstatic.” Hikaru puts his hands on Scotty's waist and urges him closer. “I'm sure it'll be all over the ship, soon enough, but for now . . . they deserve some breathing room. A chance to figure out what they want, and what they're gonna do about it. Okay?”  
  
  
“Aye.” He heaves a grudging sigh that turns into a welcoming moan when Hikaru kisses him, one hand sliding around to the small of his back to rub and soothe. Just that simple touch makes the tensions of the day ease, and Scotty has to break the kiss to catch his breath. To swallow the frog that always seems to be in his throat, lately, when Hikaru touches him so tenderly.  
  
  
He hides his suddenly burning face in Hikaru's collar and inhales deeply. Steadies himself by changing the subject. "But c'mon, y'canna tell me ye're no' even a wee bit curious about the . . . gory details."  
  
  
"Oh, I can and will tell you as many times as needed that I'm not curious  _in the least_  about the gory details. Not beyond keeping a good friend from getting embarrassed, or worse: getting his heart broken.” The hand on Scotty's back fans out, and is joined by its mate. Hikaru's breath stirs his hair: a slow exhale and deep inhale. “Pavel's like my kid brother, and . . . I'd just as soon not have to think about him screwing Dr. McCoy, please and thank you."  
  
  
Scotty grins, feeling a bit playful and oddly content. This isn't the first time he's caught Hikaru smelling his hair, and it happens more frequently, just recently.  
  
  
There are signs and there are  _signs_ , and the reading of them can be quite subjective . . . but Scotty is suddenly sure his reading is accurate, nonetheless. "Actually, I think the good doctor'll be the one doing the, er--"  
  
  
"Don't!" Hikaru steps back, quick as anything, to put a hand over Scotty's mouth. He really looks pained, now. A little seasick, even. " _Do not_  finish that sentence if you at all value any of the dirty things I plan on doing to you later."  
  
  
Scotty grins, and mouths his reply on Hikaru's hand.  Well. It involves plenty of mouth (and tongue, and teeth) but not much in the way of reply.  
  
  
Glancing around their relatively quiet corner of Engineering, Hikaru smiles in a way only Scotty ever gets to see, and walks them toward a bulkhead, and the shadows below it. In moments, Scotty's back hits super-cooled metal-alloy hard, and he hauls Hikaru to him with desperate tug.  
  
  
They're both hard, both thinking, feeling and wanting the same thing. Total-bloody-synergy, is what this is, and Scotty knows it is because he's never experienced it with anyone else.  
  
  
In the shadowsome murk, they stare into each other's eyes for several moments.  Then Scotty gently removes Hikaru's hand--kisses it lingeringly, before giving his lips the same treatment, only for ever so much longer.  His hands resettle on the prime bit of real estate that is Hikaru's arse.  
  
  
It's not long before he's burrowed under shirt and waistband, is kneading warm skin and firm flesh roughly. Hikaru's response is to grind against him just as roughly--hard, and breathing that way.  
  
  
“We're gonna get caught sooner or later,” he pants in Scotty's ear before giving it a spine-tingling nibble. “Or eventually, someone's gonna need to play back the security recordings for Engineering, and see . . . oh, I dunno, maybe that time I fucked you up against the warp core.”  
  
  
Scotty groans again, knocking his head against cold, clammy alloy and  _so_  not caring as Hikaru gives him a brand new set of hickies to replace the ones that've started to fade. The hands on his hips pin them to the bulkhead. “Aye, I remember  _that_ , that was . . . oh, that was  _lovely_ , Hikaru. . . .”  
  
  
“Mmhm. And I'm sure whoever sees that particular recording will testify about how lovely it was, at our official reprimand.”  
  
  
“Dinna be such a worry-wort. Murphy's Law says  _eventually_  someone'll catch us doin'  _something_ , aye. But I dinna think today is that day,” Scotty adds, widening his stance, just to have Hikaru close, closer . . . but not quite closest. Not yet, anyway, though Hikaru's hand is sliding down Scotty's leg, pulling it up and around his own. It's grand when two sets of wants mesh together so neatly. “So, I c'n think of at least nine other pieces of delicate machinery in here that ye've yet t' bend me over, or bugger me against. An' it just s' happens-- _ow! Bloody-fecking-Christ!_ ”  
  
  
Scotty howls as something solid, and none too soft wallops him upside the head. He's barely started exclaiming, and already Hikaru has him wedged into the corner, blocking him from whoever threw--whatever it was they threw.  
  
  
Which bloody well  _hurt_ , by the way. But not so much that it makes Hikaru's overreaction--and a typical one, since Kirk's been having him lead away missions--anything but. Especially when a moment's thought tells Scotty who did the throwing.  
  
  
“Stand down, y' silly, wee man,” he commands, not unkindly, putting his arm into moving Hikaru (who, for a compact fellow, is not easily moved when he doesn't wish to be) out of his way. The muscles under his hands are coiled and quivering--ready to spring. . . .  
  
  
But Hikaru hesitantly stands down--stands aside, and lets Scotty edge past him.  
  
  
There's a small, but solid-looking boot lying on the ground not two feet away. Sighing again, Scotty examines Main Engineering's many shadows and recesses, but Keenser has a way of blending in when he wants--like his skin's made of some sort of fecking camo.  
  
  
“See? It's just the Menace-- _Keenser! What d'ye mean throwin' around footwear like footballs! Ye coulda concussed one or both of us!_ ”  
  
  
Finally, a rasping hiss comes from high up, near one complicated junction of the water turbines--which still give him the shudders, after most of a year--and Scotty has to refrain from screeching:  _down-down-down! That's no' a climbing frame! Ye'll either break your neck, or break something_ important _, like a console, or panel! Down!_  
  
  
As it is, the rasping and hissing stops after a few seconds, during which Scotty scoffs, and crosses his arms. Hikaru immediately pulls him back into a loose embrance, resting his chin on Scotty's shoulder. Most of that fight-or-flight tension seems to have gone, but he's still tense--no doubt it'll take hours of shagging to mellow him out again.  
  
  
It's a good thing for Hikaru that Scotty's such a selfless and dedicated man.  
  
  
Another spate of offended hissing recalls him to the present. His face goes up in flames and he swears vehemently.  
  
  
“What's wrong? What's he saying?” Hikaru asks quietly, when Scotty turns in his arms and hides his face again. This time with good reason. Only numb shock allows him to repeat verbatim what that cheeky bastard said. “He . . . he said the next thing he throws'll be edged. And that if he never sees my pale, freckled arse again, it'll be too soon.”  
  
  
For a long few moments, Hikaru doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to, the quaking of his body--followed by a deep, loud laugh that rings off of every metallic surface--says it all.  
  
  
“How's that for Murphy's Law--ye gods!” Scotty exclaims, and Hikaru's hand slides up his back, to caress the nape of his neck, and the other soothes that one spot, low on his back. It's unnerving how well Hikaru knows his way around Scotty's body. “How mortifying!”  
  
  
"No argument, there. And no more sex in Engineering, either.  _I'm_  the only one who gets to see your pale, freckled ass," Hikaru murmurs, kissing Scotty's face lightly--but briefly.  (Keenser's still about, after all, still has at least one other boot.)  
  
  
Scotty looks up at Hikaru, who's watching him with unusually uncertain eyes, as they both let the implications of what was just said settle over them. Like a custom-made suit, it feels damned nice and seems to fit well. Better than anything Scotty's ever owned.   
  
  
 _D'ye truly mean that?_  he wants to ask, but suddenly hasn't the voice to.  _Is this what y' really want?_    
  
  
Instead, he clears his throat, and tries to look a bit less like a star-struck lass. “Ye'll wait up for me, then?”  
  
  
Hikaru gives him a Jim Kirk sort of half-smile, only comfortingly less daft and dangerous. "My bed. By five minutes after your shift ends. Understood?"  
  
  
Scotty bites his lip damn near to bloody to hide a smile of his own. “Aye, sir! I'll be there wi' bells on, then.”  
  
  
"Bells, huh?” They lean toward each other, the tips of their noses brushing. “You're such a pervert."  
  
  
"Ye're damned right--an' dinna knock it till ye've tried it.”  
  
  
“Said the actress to the bishop.” Hikaru snorts, and steals a last, quick kiss. Well, quick compared to the last one. But long enough, even still, for Scotty's knees to go a bit wavery. “Scotty. Montgomery, I . . . um, guess I'll see you in a bit.”  
  
  
“That ye will,” Scotty promises breathlessly, thought he's unable to shake the feeling that Hikaru had been about to say something else entirely. But he supposes there's no rush, no urgent need to say the something elses that've gone unsaid between them.  
  
  
They have the rest of this night, and the next. Nights and nights, as far as Scotty's eye can see. . . .  
  
  
With a rather shy wave, Hikaru makes his way out of Main Engineering. And though Scotty hates to see him leave, he  _loves_  to watch him go--does so  _till_  he's gone. Then he leans against the bulkhead to catch his breath, but just for a moment. There'll be no staying late or catching up on work, tonight.  
  
  
“The sooner I'm done, the sooner I'm on my way,” he murmurs, grinning like a loon, and not caring in the slightest.  
  
  
Whistling a jaunty old sea shanty, Scotty strides off to the dilithium chambers, where he works carefully, efficiently. Checking systems he knows like the back of his hand on a somewhat moony autopilot.  
  
  
Halfway through, Keenser puts in a wary appearance and pitches in, but Scotty barely notices. His mind is on other things.  
  
  
Pavel and McCoy's little affair is also quite forgotten, as he realizes his  _own_  affair is much, much more . . . interesting.  
  
  



	5. Fortune's Wager: The Wearing Down of Dr. Leonard McCoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chekov is discreetly courting Bones. Bones pretends he's not being discreetly courted. It's win-win for all involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Follow up to "Fortune's Favor." Spoilers for the movie.

“Hello, Doctor.”   
  
  
Bones grunts, but doesn't shift his attention. Ensign Chekov knows to park his ass on a flat surface after announcing himself--that Bones won't tolerate being hovered over, or rushed. He also knows good and well to keep his yap shut until the day's medical logs are reviewed.  
  
  
“Someday, your face is gonna stick like that,” Bones references the smile that waits for him more nights than  _not_ , lately. Looks up, and scowl matches smile till Bones's stomach growls, seemingly on cue.  
  
  
He shuts off the monitor. “Alright. Let's go, before I die of starvation.”


	6. Fortune's Wager: The Wearing Down of Dr. Leonard McCoy 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An away mission goes fatally wrong. Bones climbs into a bottle, and takes some fishing out. Does some fishing out of his own. Approx. 1500 words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Follow up to the Fortune's Favor. Spoilers for the movie.

  
Bones is sitting tailor-style on the floor, back against his bed, contemplating the last fifth of a bottle of bourbon.  
  
  
Not whether he wants to drink it, but whether he's still coordinated enough to slop most of it into his glass . . . which actually seems to have rolled off somewhere, as glasses sometimes do.  
  
  
In light of that, he thinks he'd probably be better off tipping the bottle to his head. Eliminate the middle-man, as it were. But perversely, he's decided to go for the glass after all ( _there's a fine line between connoisseur, and drunkard_ , he tells himself wryly), when the door to his quarters--the door he set to  **Emergency Override Only** \--whooshes open, emitting one gawky, Russian genius.  
  
  
 _Bones_ 's gawky Russian genius . . . not that he thinks of the kid as  _his_ , near-nightly recurring dinner dates aside.  
  
  
“Goddamnit, you and Jim are the only people I've ever met who have not only the know-how, but the goddamned  _chutzpah_  to break into the Chief Medical Officer's quarters,” he growls, screwing his face into something fierce enough to have sent anyone _but_  Jim scurrying somewhere well out of eye-shot.  
  
  
Lord knows, it should do the same to this damned  _kid_. Send him running for the Mess, where he'd hopefully find companionship closer to his own age and temperament, and so finally leave Bones be. . . .  
  
  
But after a solid month of suppers, and hanging around the officer's lounge together like twin stenches, Ensign Chekov isn't even a little cowed by glares or growls from Bones's large arsenal. His big blue eyes tick from the bottle then back to Bones, and for once, the kid isn't smiling. Thank goodness for small favors.  
  
  
“I, em, vent to your office to meet you for supper, as usual, but Nurse Chapel said you left early. So I vent to the officer's lounge, but Mr. Shrijn said he had not seen you at all this ewening. Finally, I come here. I vas . . . vorried for you, Doctor,” he finishes uncertainly. Bones snorts.  
  
  
“Can't imagine why--I'm healthy as a goddamned horse . . . a very drunk, very  _tired_  horse,” he hints broadly, lifting the bottle. He means to polish it off in one burning gulp, but it slips out of his nerveless fingers. Hits the floor with a thump. Damn. “Be a good boy, and run along, willya?”  
  
  
The ensign makes a pettish, clucking noise and rushes over, dropping to his knees to right the bottle. (Not that he needs to . . . there isn't enough left in it to slosh out.) Then he sits back on his heels to look Bones over critically, but not unkindly, and Bones half expects a naïve lecture on the evils of binge drinking.  
  
  
But the kid's mouth works soundlessly for a few moments, then he takes a deep breath, turning the bottle in restless hands.  
  
  
“Trinh vas in my year. She vas the only other person I know at the Ekedemy vith a thicker accent than me.” Now he smiles a little but it falters instantly. He looks at the mostly empty bottle for a long moment and with a sigh, places it on the night table carefully. Turns haunted, red-rimmed eyes to Bones, who's now got a very unpleasant sinking sensation in his gut. “She vas a good friend to me for a long time. And vhen ve vere both assigned to the Enterprise, I vas so glad to know there vould be at least vone friendly face here. That . . . I vould not be so alone, after all.”  
  
  
“Oh, God, I'm . . . sorry, kid. I didn't know. I'm sorry.” He leans his head back against the mattress and closes his eyes, even though every time he does, he sees  _her_. That poor dead kid . . . her eyes were nothing like Ensign Chekov's, yet they'd had that same openness, and calmness--even in extremis. Not so much as if she hoped Bones'd pull a miracle out of his ass and save her--Scotty had used up Enterprise's daily quota of miracles just getting her shipboard without killing her--but like she  _knew_. Knew that he couldn't save her, and didn't hold it against him.  
  
  
She'd even smiled at him . . . the way you'd smile to reassure a weeping child.  _Smiled_ \--and it was bloody, grisly, damned awful. Smiled, and closed her eyes, and slept, her internal organs rapidly liquefying despite his best efforts to halt the inevitable.  
  
  
She'd been dead within the hour, and he'd barely been able to keep her comfortable for that. Afterwards, there'd been nothing to do but put the . . . remains in stasis, fill out the CMO's log and file the appropriate reports. And avoid Jim's lingering concern after the official debriefing was conducted.  
  
  
But there'd been nothing else, no great hue or holler to mark her passing, no one called to account for her senseless, agonizing death.  
  
  
 _There never is_ , Bones had thought numbly, knowing that when the numbness passed, he'd be too guilt-ridden and heart-sick to do anything but climb in the nearest accommodating bottle. And so, he'd finished out his shift, because he could do nothing else. His routines have held him together in the face of death more times in the past nine months than he cares to count.  
  
  
Now, he opens eyes that are gritty, and desert-dry. He hasn't wept since he was young enough to think weeping actually did any good--since well before Ensigns Lam or Chekov had even been born.  
  
  
“I did my damnedest, Pavel. I swear,” he says softly, hoarsely. He can't quite meet the ensign's eyes, and hangs his head even though it makes the room spin. It never gets easier . . . losing a patient. Never stops tearing him to pieces that get progressively harder to cobble back together. “God knows, if I could take her place, I would. If I could take  _any_  of their places--”  
  
  
“But I vould not vant  _you_  to take her place!” The ensign's voice is shaky, like the fingers that touch Bones's chin to tilt his head up. Blinky, wet baby-blues in a sea of pink are closer than they were a minute ago, and Ensign Chekov kisses him. Chastely, sweetly--at least at first.  
  
  
Those cool, gentle fingers slide down to Bones chest more for balance than anything else, but some sound escapes him, too low to be a sob, and too pained to be anything but the precursor of  _want_. His lips part just a little, an unmistakable invitation for Bones to make himself at home.  
  
  
Oh, it'd be wrong, but Bones wants to do just that. To pull Ensign Chekov down into his lap and--  
  
  
\--and he turns his face away just a bit, so the ensign's lips are just brushing the corner of his mouth, and they're simply sharing each others' air.  
  
  
 _Sex never solves problems, only creates them_ , Bones reminds himself, and admonishes the sluggish stirring of his whiskey-dick. _Besides which . . . this kid deserves a better first time than a clumsy grief-fuck on a cold floor, administered by a bitter drunk who's old enough to be his father. And who can promise him nothing else beyond an efficient_ good morning _blow-job._  
  
  
“You newer give less than all of yourself to those in your care, Doctor. I know this,” the ensign murmurs, pressing another brief kiss to the corner of Bones's mouth: restrained, but not nearly as chaste as the first. A moment later, there's a warm body molding itself to his right side, a curly-haired head tucking itself under his chin. It doesn't feel awful. “But sometimes . . . is not enough. Sometimes, our best is simply not enough. I know this, too.”  
  
  
“Yeah, I guess you would,” Bones says, his voice rough from an even spent swilling Kentucky Courage . . . but not from tears. Never from those. He wishes that weren't the case. Wishes that both Amanda Grayson and Trinh Lam both had been standing a few paces further back from their respective abysses, if only to spare the young man in his arms.  
  
  
“May--may I ask a fawor of you, Dr. McCoy?” The ensign's face is warm on his neck, humid breaths puffing on his throat. Against the few remains of his better judgment, Bones holds him a bit closer. The not-awfulness continues, stronger than ever.  
  
  
“Kid, if you asked me for my liver right now, I'd probably give it to you. Though it hasn't been gently used, so buyer beware,” Bones adds. The kid laughs a little, sounding tear-fogged and strange.  
  
  
“Vell, if you are  _giving avay_  organs--respectfully, sir, there are other parts of you I vould sooner have. Barring that, I vould be grateful if I could sit vith you like this . . . just for a little while?”  
  
  
Bones knows he should say no. Not because the ensign's got ulterior motives (caught up in his grief, the poor kid probably doesn't know  _what_  he really wants, and isn't in any shape to do anything about it, anyway), but because suddenly,  _Bones_  has a fine set of ulterior motives of his own. He wants to see the ensign's long, pale body splayed on his navy-blue, Starfleet-issue sheets. His back arching, his mouth open in a cry of pleasure as Bones opens him up, and drives into him over and over and. . . .  
  
  
. . . and nevermind that, as in the ensign's case, this surge of desire is nothing so much as his psyche's way of repressing a more personal form of grief. Not to mention the hammer-blows dealt to an admittedly prominent God-complex.  
  
  
He sighs, and rests his cheek on hair that's baby-soft. Closes his eyes again and inhales deeply. The ensign's hair smells as good as the silences between them almost always feel, and soothes in much the same way. These are the first non-awful moments Bones has had since he was comm'ed out of a sound sleep twenty hours ago to not save a young woman's life.  
  
  
A young woman that he didn't and will never know as well as the devastated boy in his arms did.  
  
  
It's this that decides him. This, and the way the ensign shakes in his arms like a Chekov-quake. Like his world will never be safe or warm again. For Bones, this turns the tide, and the ensign that he failed is a lot less crucial than the ensign he can still help.  
  
  
“Of course you can stay,” he says gruffly, and the kid wastes no time. Burrows even closer against him, one pale, square hand clutching the front of Bones's shirt, unwittingly glancing across a nipple. Bones grits his teeth, and hopes the ensign's not planning on looking down anytime soon. “For as long as you need to.”  
  
  
“Tank you, sir. Tank you,” Ensign Chekov whispers, and half of it is muffled against Bones's neck.  
  
  
“Any time.” And as if he'd given a cue, the Chekov flood-gates open. Not merely tears, but words. Seemingly random stories about Ensign Lam, and their time at the Ekedemy. All Bones can do is hold the kid tighter, let him talk and weep himself out.  
  
  
He listens . . . which is probably not enough to do any real good, but then, in Bones's long experience, nothing ever is.  
  
  



	7. Fortune's Wager: The Wearing Down of Dr. Leonard McCoy 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Ensign Chekov really wants. What Bones is ready to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Follow up to the Fortune's Favor series. Spoilers for the movie.

“To me, you are so beautiful.  
  
  
“I vill admit, this is not the vord anyvone on Enterprise--or possibly anyvhere else--vould choose to describe you. Ruggedly handsome, they might say.  _Sexy_. They vould definitely say sexy. I, too, say all these things, but foremost you are beautiful.  
  
  
“And I am grateful that perhaps I am the only vone--besides the Keptin--who sees this. I am naturally wery competitive, and jealous of your affection, besides. A serious riwal might . . . spur me to actions most unvise, because I vant so badly to make you mine.  
  
  
“I vant . . . ah, I vant  _so_  much, Doctor. Much more than I ought. . . .  
  
  
“I vant you to vake up,  _right now_. To hold me tight and kiss the back of my neck.   
  
  
“I vant you to put your big, gentle hands on my hips and pull me back against you.  
  
  
“I vant . . . I vant to lose my wirginity tonight, in this bed. Vith you. And aftervards, to lay here vith you vell into our shifts.  
  
  
“I vant to stop aching vith the  _vanting_  of you . . . and ache vith the  _having_  of you! To feel that vonderful ache vhether I am sitting at the conn, standing in the turbo-lift, or valking toward Sickbay to see you.  
  
  
“I vant you to think about me vhen ve are not together later--vant you to fantasize about making love to me in your office, on your desk.  
  
  
“I vant you to make love to me in your office. On your desk.  
  
  
“I vant to fall asleep vith you tomorrow night-- _every_  night, and vake up vith you ewery morning.  
  
  
“I vant to introduce you to my family, someday . . . to introduce my family to you.  
  
  
“I vant you to let me lay my head on your shoulder vhenever I am sad, as I did tonight. And for you to do the same, and newer, ewer push me avay. . . .  
  
  
“I vant you to trust me vith your heart as I trust you vith my own . . . oh, Doctor McCoy! I  _vant_ \--”  
  
  
He falls silent and lays very, very still as the Doctor rolls over.  _Spooning_  him is the term. Doctor McCoy  _spoons_  him, and drapes one solid arm over his waist. Rubs one big, gentle hand on Pavel's stomach, before sliding it upwards and dragging both shirts with it.  
  
  
Pavel's breath whistles shallowly, loudly in the pitch-black room before catching. He is utterly frozen with anticipation and joy, painfully hard and more than ready to be touched at last--  
  
  
\--but the Doctor merely sighs, and turns onto his back again. The hand and arm disappear, leaving jumping, yearning muscles in their wake.  
  
  
Finally he lets out the caught breath, even as his heart rabbits around the cage of his ribs. Doctor McCoy's slipped back into a deeper slumber.  
  
  
“I vant you to call me  _Pavel_ , Leonard. Not  _kid_ , or  _boy_  or  _Ensign Chekov_. Vant you to admit to yourself that I am not a child, but a man. Perhaps not the man you deserve, but the man who vants you more than anyvone else ever vill,” he whispers fiercely, closing his eyes against tears he'd hoped to be done with for at least a little while. Frustration and grief battle with each other, turning his heart into an aching, chaotic maelstrom.  
  
  
“Most of all . . . I vant your arm back around me.” Pavel huffs out a tiny, frustrated giggle, feeling foolish and young. Wretched and miserable. “But I am a covard: afraid that if you vake up, you vill not vant the same things I vant, and you vill ask me to leave.”  
  


*

  
  
Long after the ensign's wept himself into a fitful doze, Bones is still gritty-eyed and awake, staring up at a ceiling he can't see. Every so often, the kid whimpers in his sleep, a lonely heat-source on the other side of the mattress--one that Bones is finding it increasingly impossible not wrap himself around and rub himself against.  
  
  
His head is considerably clearer than it was when the kid first broke into his quarters (though his skull already throbs unevenly, like a deformed heart), and it's for this reason that he knows he's gone mad. Perhaps the madness started tonight, with letting the kid stay. Or getting into bed with him, after reasoning--hah!--that between the alcohol and the grief, the temptation wouldn't be nearly so great for either of them.  
  
  
Or maybe the madness started when he poured the kid a drink in the officer's lounge, instead of shooing him away. Whichever, Bones'd clearly lost his mind at some point. Nearly gave the game away, and rolled the ensign onto his stomach. All the better to take what he's been wanting for weeks, and with increasing intensity.  
  
  
What the ensign seems to want to give away so damned cheaply, and with increasing desperation.  
  
  
But Bones hadn't. He  _won't_. And when morning rolls around, he'll send the kid packing to his own quarters, and that'll be that. No more sleepovers fit to drive a man to drink, if he weren't already forty-seven percent ethanol.  
  
  
The kid whines in his sleep, thrashing a little, before rolling over against Bones's side, some kind of soupy, Russian-English pidgin-speak slipping out on an unhappy exhale. His face feels feverish-warm against Bones's arm, even through the damned shirts. . . .  
  
  
Kicking himself, Bones puts his arms around the kid, and rolls them both onto their sides again. Murmurs comforting nonsense--what he tells  _himself_  is only nonsense--until the ensign's sporadic whimpers become sighs, become undisturbed breathing.  
  
  
The ensign's scent, mint and herbs,surrounds him, wraps around his senses and settles in for the long-haul. It is with the knowledge that he's on a slippery slope, indeed, that he nuzzles and kisses the ensign's nape and rests his hand over a strong, if broken heart. The rhythm soothes and excites him in equal measures, until he eventually gives up on catching sleep of his own accord.  
  
  
His hand clenches lightly on the ensign's chest, keeping time, and he thinks of nothing at all, hoping either exhaustion or inebriation will finally, mercifully take him.  
  
  
He's still hoping at 07:00 hours, when the computer chimes his usual wake-up call, slowly bringing the lights up to his preferred brightness. He barks  _Discontinue Wake-up!_  when there's enough light to see the weary, confused glitter of the ensign's eyes squinting at him over one bony shoulder.  
  
  
"Doctor? Vhat. . . ?"  
  
  
"Nothing. Everything's alright," Bones promises gently, returning the tired, hang-dog smile the ensign gives him. Realizes he's got one foot on the slope, and the other on a banana peel, so there's no point in back-pedaling. "I've got you. Go on back to sleep."  
  
  
"Ohh . . . okay. Tank you, Doctor." Some of the misery leaves that smile, and the ensign turns over in Bones's arms, squirming around till he's once more curled against Bones's side, head tucked under his chin.  
  
  
He's asleep almost immediately--the deep, featureless sleep of the young and emotionally exhausted--one square hand resting over Bones's own yearning, conflicted heart.  
  
  
Bones covers the ensign's hand with his own and closes his eyes.  
  



	8. Fortune's Wager: The Wearing Down of Dr. Leonard McCoy 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pavel wakes up alone. Stuff happens. End of summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Follow up to the Fortune's Favor. Spoilers for the movie.

When he wakes up, he's disoriented and dehydrated . . . and completely dressed.  
  
  
Curious.  
  
  
“Lights at . . . em, tventy-five percent, please,” he says, and near-dark of the room slowly gains crisper, unfamiliar edges. Pavel sits up, blinking at a room that is large, and clearly not his own. . . .  
  
  
Memory comes rushing back like a photon torpedo, pushing him back down to the strange, strangely familiar bed.  He squinches his eyes shut as tightly as possible, but that doesn't stop tears from escaping, or his heart from trying to outrun the horrible truth that's lain in wait while he was sleeping.  
  
  
Trinh is dead.  
  
  
It  _hurts_. Burns like acid. Hollows him out.  Bad enough that she died--and died  _suffering_ \--but she'd died  _alone_ , while he'd been sleeping.  Had been in unimaginable agony, likely frightened, and what had Pavel been doing?  Pavel had been sleeping off one of many evenings of alcoholic excess and sexual frustration with the Doctor.  
  
  
Having lurid wet-dreams and running through his third set of sheets that week.  
  
  
She'd been  _alone_. . . .  
  
  
No, not alone entirely--the Doctor had been with her, and despite his habitual grumpiness, Pavel knows from experience that his bedside manner is impeccable: reassuring and kind. So Trinh hadn't been alone, but she hadn't had  _family_  with her. Someone who had known her when she wasn't clinging to her life like a flame to a last bit of wick before being . . . extinguished forever.  
  
  
They'd loved each other--couldn't have been closer if they were siblings.  He'd been the little brother Trinh'd never had, and she'd been the big sister Pavel didn't know he wanted. They'd been fast friends since their first day on campus, both a bit lost and overwhelmed, and latching on to a kindred spirit for dear life. Practiced their English on each other, taught each other smatterings of Thai and Russian, and shared their scholastic and dating woes with each other (though they'd had precious little of the latter, unless one counted a from-a-distance crush they'd both had on Hikaru Sulu, when he'd been a popular, unapproachable, and seldom seen upperclassman).  Compared roommates, good and bad.  Played thousands of games of chess and rounds of Kal-Toh (she was better at the former, often putting him in check in under twenty moves.  He was better at the latter, completing the icosidodecahedron in as few as fifteen total placements).   
  
  
He'd tutored her in physics when she needed it, and she'd badgered, pummeled, and whipped his gantry-thin, emaciated body into something with actual muscle tone, so that he more than squeaked by in his physical education and defense classes: he  _aced_ them, as the American cadets would say.  
  
  
They'd both been highly competitive, though different enough in focus and personality not to grate on each other. Trinh had been the more aggressive one.  The fighter. Always bold and capable. Always  _ready_. Pavel had been equally confident, but so much more  _wary_. Had required more occasional goading than anyone but Trinh had ever had the tenacity to keep up.  
  
  
Then they both got assigned to the Enterprise without decisive action taken by either of them. And it was nothing two green cadets, no matter how talented, would have  _ever_  gotten if not for such dire circumstances.  And despite those circumstances--Vulcan facing an environmental disaster, possibly requiring evacuation of the planet--one of his fondest memories ever, is of standing on a long line of similarly anxious cadets, looking around for a familiar face and not finding it.  Wondering if Trinh was on the Farragut, or possibly the Toronto, and if she was already as lonely and scared as he was . . . then getting tackled from behind with a hug and a happy  _we on same ship, Pavel!_  
  
  
And they'd even been assigned quarters in the same section of the same deck.  Without prior coordination, they'd both run into the corridor at nearly the same time, heading for each others' quarters, only to meet in the middle.  They'd giggled breathlessly at their brand new uniforms: his gold-on-black, hers red-on-black.  
  
  
Within that same day . . . Nero.  The Vulcan people nearly extinguished.  The Commander's poor mother murdered--that last all because Pavel, for the first time in his life, hadn't quite been good enough or fast enough. . . .  
  
  
Trinh had almost died  _that_  day, too, after the Narada attacked the Enterprise. Had been helping evacuate Deck 6 with several other security ensigns (two of whom had died alongside CMO Puri) and barely made it out. Had gotten badly burned, doing so, and wound up in Dr.  McCoy's care for the first but not the last time.  
  
  
She'd had nothing but good things to say about him, about how confident, and calm, and professional he was--even under such trying circumstances.   _And_  how attractive he was (leave it to Trinh to notice  _that_  while being attended to for serious burns.  But Pavel's own later experiences bore her out completely).  
  
  
But she'd  _survived_. Come through it all with a commendation for bravery. Stuck with the Enterprise, though she was offered a sweetheart reassignment on the Ambassador to Andor's security detail.  
  
  
Trinh'd turned it down, of course.  Had no interest in reassignments, sweetheart or otherwise.  She'd remained aboard the Enterprise, and consistently volunteered for any away mission she could get, and there were many. She and Hikaru had a running competition for who'd gotten into and out of more fracases during away missions.  Last Pavel had heard, she was winning.  
  
  
She  _always_  won, always persevered, which is part of what makes it so unbelievable--so  _awful_  that she'd been felled by something completely beyond her control.  Had gone down fighting, no doubt, but not fighting a hostile alien . . . fighting the degeneration of a body suddenly turned against itself by a cloud of dust.  
  
  
Pavel's never entertained the idea of an afterlife--never had anyone close to him die, to make such an improbable idea attractive--but if there were anyone he'd wish an eternity of happiness. . . .  
  
  
Long minutes pass slowly. Tears fall less frequently. His breaths don't hitch into sobs as often. His limbs begin to ache from being curled so tightly together.  
  
  
Finally, more dehydrated than ever, he sits up again, sniffling, and drying his face with his sleeve. “Lights . . . lights at thirty-five percent, please.”  
  
  
On the Doctor's night table, there's a PADD--the recharge light is blinking fitfully, and he absently it places it in the docking station--and a tall glass of water. Under it is a piece of plain white paper with small, uniformly blocky print.  
  
  
He reaches for the glass and has finished half of it--a bit tepid, but more than satisfactory--before he picks up the note, his heart racing again, but for an altogether different reason.  
  
  


> ** Kid, **
> 
> ** Informed the First Automaton that you were 4-F for the day, so don't go rushing to the Bridge, all bright-eyed and ready to follow orders. You'll make me look bad. **
> 
> ** -Drink the glass of water. The Whole Glass.  **
> 
> ** -Go back to sleep, if you need to. **
> 
> ** If I don't hear from you by noon, I'll assume you haven't eaten, and stop by with lunch--which you will eat all of--barring medical emergencies. **
> 
> ** I'll know if you didn't finish the water. **
> 
> ** Feel better. **
> 
> ** **
> 
>  
> 
> ** ~~Doct  
>  McC~~ **
> 
> ** Regards,  
> Leonard **

  
  
  
Almost smiling, Pavel folds the note carefully, resists the urge to press it to his heart . . . for all of ten seconds . . . then tucks it into his pocket. He obediently finishes the water and places the glass back on the night table, next to the PADD. Scrubs his face with his hands and looks around curiously, as he hadn't had much of a chance last night.  
  
  
The Doctor's quarters are much larger than his own, as befits the Chief Medical Officer--looks even larger, because it's mostly unfurnished and completely undecorated. No surprise there, the Doctor doesn't strike him as being sentimental. At least not about material things.  
  
  
Pavel slides off the bed and sleeping platform. Stretches, and is surprised he doesn't feel stiff or achy, considering how long he's been asleep.  The Doctor's bed has given him the best rest he's had in months, sexual frustration aside.  
  
  
Across from the bed, against the opposite wall, is a large desk and display--left on, but in  _Standby_  mode. Though the INCOMING MESSAGES light is also blinking. A momentary temptation grips him . . . but any such correspondences are not his concern. It's enough for him that the Doctor has no lovers--hasn't for several years, according to the Keptin.  Pavel has no rivals for the Doctor's affection, and with that he will be content, for now.   
  
  
One of the perks of being the CMO, is a personal bathroom, which Pavel uses, though he would've sworn his bladder was empty.  Afterwards, as he holds his hand under the small sonic sanitizer, the mirror shows a face as wan and weary as Pavel feels. There are grey-brown circles around his reddened eyes, and his face is still blotchily pink.  
  
  
"How is it that the Doctor can resist us?" he asks his reflection wryly. Attempts to run a hand through his bed-head, though without a comb and brush, his hair's always been a lost cause of curls and tangles.  
  
  
Back in the room, he drifts toward a book shelf with a few print books (titles he doesn't recognize, mostly by someone named Elmore Leonard), some baroque alien junk that no doubt caught the Keptin's magpie eye just long enough for him to foist it off on the Doctor.  Several mounted medals, most of which have something to do with the Nero Incident. Quite a few framed photos--mostly of the Doctor and the Keptin together, at various points in their Starfleet careers.  Pride of place is held by a photo of the Doctor shaking hands and laughing heartily with Admiral Barnett.  Before the photo loops, the Admiral gives the Doctor a warmly paternal clap on the back.   
  
  
But amongst these more recent photos, like needles in the proverbial haystack are two older photos that catch Pavel's attention:  
  
  
The first is a photo in which the Doctor is much closer to  _Pavel_ 's age, than his current age. He's grinning like Pavel's never seen him do, all white teeth and flashing dark eyes--and  _dimples_. His hair is messy . . . shaggy even, and he's got his arm around a strong-featured woman with short blonde hair and dancing green eyes. At almost the same moment, they stick out their tongues, and start laughing. He pecks her cheek, and she blushes, and the photo loops.  They face the camera again, grinning.  
  
  
The other picture, half shoved behind a photo of a laughing, obviously drunk Cadet Kork at some Academy mixer (getting slapped in the face by a coldly unamused Cadet Uhura), is another photo of the Doctor with someone whom he clearly loves . . . someone he  _married_.  
  
  
The loop begins with the two men, both dark-haired and dark-eyed, exchanging rings before a minister. The Doctor is solemn, earnest and intense.  The other man wears an indulgent sort of smile, seems more bemused than anything else. He suddenly hauls the Doctor in by the lapels of his tuxedo, and kisses him hard.  
  
  
After the initial surprise, the Doctor starts giving as good as he gets, and from somewhere out of frame, enthusiastic handfuls of confetti are thrown. The happy couple stops kissing long enough to smile at their audience.  
  
  
The photo loops just as a large bit of confetti hits the Doctor in the eye, and his embarrassed smile turns into a familiar scowl.  
  
  
But in that moment before the loop, when the Doctor starts to scowl, and his husband is smiling winningly for the camera, Pavel places the man instantly. He  _newer_  forgets a face, and even if he did, he wouldn't forget a face with such a mixture of charisma, condescension, and arrogance.  
  
  
Ethan Chambers wasn't  _quite_  a world champion chess-player, but he  _had_  come close, several times. Pavel's mother had thought the young prodigy a petty, erratic showboat, but both Pavel and his father had always rather liked his game. However there was no doubt that he was more famous for his personal and professional  _style_ , than his actual level of talent. (Though his scorched-earth, take-no-prisoners approach to any and all competitors occasionally put the Chekovs in mind of a starving hyena.)  
  
  
In either picture, the Doctor seems to glow with happiness, half of a very loving couple. But the second photo is obviously the more recent of the two, the haughty young chess-player the more recent love. It doesn't take a genius to reach a sound hypothesis.  
  
  
“So it vas  _you_  that broke his heart so badly, then."  Pavel tries to find evidence of the Doctor's obvious devotion mirrored on his husbands face. He's not certain he does, but some who smiles as much as Ethan Chambers does tends to be difficult to read. "Vas it collateral damage only, or did you consciously decide to destroy him vhen you realized you could no longer keep him?”  
  
  
Chambers's reply is to grab his lover--his  _husband_ \--and kiss him ardently, in a way that belies any possibility of future animus. But Pavel accepts the proof of his reason readily: the happy young Doctor, a little more solemn than in the first photo, but still clearly a buoyant, animated individual, versus the cynical, often mercurial Doctor Pavel knows today.  
  
  
Something painful coils within him, jabbing angry spikes through his heart.  He has to stop himself from initializing the photo display--deleting that pretty, liar's smile.  
  
  
Eventually, he contents himself with turning it to face the wall, unwilling to entertain such a person any longer than absolutely necessary.  But the laughing Doctor in the first picture catches his eyes again, and he brushes his fingers across the cool display.  
  
  
“So, this is vhat you look like vhen you are happy, and in love,” he murmurs to the radiant young man, who sticks his tongue out and laughs. After a few loops, Pavel turns away, and tries not to dwell on the fact that the Doctor may never look that way for  _him_.  
  
  
His next port of call is a deeply recessed closet that offers not as much in the way of revelations. Several sets of uniforms, and one dress uniform that the Doctor would look  _wery_  handsome in. Just imagining the Doctor's intent, straight-shouldered, loose-limbed prowl--distracting either coming or going--in such militaristic clothing does cruel, delightful things to Pavel's body. . . .  
  
  
So, then.  On to the civilian attire: button down shirts and slacks in sedate colors and earth tones. Two pairs of blue jeans, both very worn. A few t-shirts mentioning things Pavel's only heard of in passing-- _Newport News, Graceland,_  and  _Woodstock '45_ \--and one shirt that says, inexplicably,  _I was at Burning Man, and the only hemp I got was this lousy goddamn t-shirt!_  
  
  
There are three similar pullover sweaters, one in burgundy, one in forest green, the last in brown. Settling on the burgundy sweater, Pavel plucks it from the closet, and holds it to his face, inhaling. He can smell the Doctor's aftershave: bold and masculine. This scent--only leavened with bourbon--had surrounded him as he slept.   
  
  
He could smell it for the rest of his life and never want to smell anything else.  
  
  
“Time, please--hours and meenutes only.”  
  
  
“Eleven hundred and twenty-three hours.”  
  
  
Thirty-seven minutes until the Doctor returns.  
  
  
Hesitating only a moment, Pavel shucks his uniform shirts, forgotten even as he drops them, and pulls the sweater on. It's heavy, and a bit scratchy, and bags ridiculously on him.  Makes him feel like a child playing dress-up.  
  
  
 _Vhich is exactly how the Doctor vould see it,_  he acknowledges to himself, drifting back to the bed and flopping face-down.  He could always tell the Doctor he was cold and the sweater looked too inviting to pass up.  Not exactly a nuanced lie, but he doubts the Doctor would notice.  
  
  
 _He does not notice many things, vhere I am concerned.  Vould just see a poor, cold boy borrowing a sveater out of desperation. Not a pathetic man who vants him so badly, he's reduced to vearing a stupid sveater just to feel closer to him . . . though possibly this is for the best, since I vould rather not be seen at all, than be seen as pathetic,_  Pavel admits morosely, kicking off his socks.  He's still sad, still tired, but mostly lonely.  And hungry.  It's been nearly a day since he's eaten.  Since he's  _wanted_  to eat.  
  
  
In a little over half an hour, at least one of those problems will be solved. As for the loneliness . . . well.  This may be a dream and not a memory, but he seems to recall waking up in the Doctor's arms earlier.  That the Doctor hadn't tried to discourage him from burrowing closer.  Had even held his hand.  
  
  
Though it likely  _was_  a dream--the wishful-thinking kind that occurs when one is half-asleep, and can spin a story out of air. But it _feels_  like a real thing. A steady light, in a long, dark room.  
  
  
 _Everything's okay . . . I've got you. . . ._  
  
  
"Yes, you do, Doctor.  That is exactly my problem."  Pavel sighs.  Just the memory of the Doctor's voice, gruff as always, but with hints of genuine concern, is enough to undo him completely.  To make him feel that maybe, just  _maybe_ , his situation isn't entirely hopeless.  
  
  
A handful of logic problems and eight minutes later, Pavel rolls restlessly onto his back. Approximately twenty-nine minutes until the Doctor returns with lunch.  He's surrounded by the Doctor's scent--by his clothing, and it's almost like being held again. Except that it's really not, it's simply the closest he can get at this time.  
  
  
Which is apparently close enough for his hormones.  
  
  
Pavel closes his eyes and tries to imagine a game of solitary Kal-Toh--but not just any game. One that he will complete in ten placements.  Not an easy thing to do, even for someone who lives by equations, and sees his world as a series of spatial mathematical problems to be solved, re-solved, and reconfigured.  
  
  
He should be completely engrossed.  However . . . there's another problem that has nothing to do with logic:  
  
  
Pavel is aroused.  
  
  
The desire that's colored his every waking moment for months--but had been mostly shelved for the past day--has found him once again.  And though his grief is still sharp, still eats at his heart like acid, he's also keenly aware of how lucky he is to be alive. To be in love. To be laying in the bed of the man he loves and yearning for nothing more than his touch.  
  
  
And  _how_  he yearns. . . .  
  
  
Touching himself doesn't really alleviate the ache of that need--hasn't since he kissed the Doctor in Mr. Shrijn's lounge four weeks ago.  Only makes it bearable for a bit longer, the best of a frustratingly limited set of options.  And one he dare not exercise here, tempting as the thought is.  
  
  
“Please, go avay now,” he commands his body, hands drumming restlessly on his thighs, thumbs framing the root of his current dilemma.  “I cannot do this here. The Doctor vould know as soon as he saw me. Besides vhich, it vould be disrespectful.  I do not tink he vould be happy vith me.”  
  
  
Piece spoken, he opens his eyes and looks down the length of his body.  
  
  
The situation has not improved.  
  
  
In fact, it's gotten considerably . . . worse.  
  
  
 _Pitching a tent_  is one of many American colloquialism he's picked up, and it's always struck him as being strangely apt. For an _American_  colloquialism, anyway.   It describes the funny-mortifying-sort-of-painful state of his lower half quite succinctly.  
  
  
“Go  _avay. Please_. I cannot valk all the vay back to my qvarters in such a state! Out of the qvestion! And I do not  _vant to_  leave until the Doctor  _asks_  me to, anyway. Be reasonable.”  
  
  
But his body isn't in the mood to be reasonable. It hasn't been in the mood for that for  _months_ , and had very little in the way of satisfaction. It wants whatever release is readily available, and it wants it five minutes ago.  
  
  
And the weight of the sweater and friction of the zipper only makes it worse. Makes him imagine the way the Doctor's hand would feel on him, heavy, warm, a little rough . . . like the way the Doctor  _looks_  at him sometimes, after they've had too much vodka or Andorian brandy. Like he wants to devour Pavel, and--  
  
  
\--he can only imagine that such a clever, impassioned mouth would indeed make a meal of him.  
  
  
“Oh.  _Ohh_. This is not good. Not at all,” he grits out, squinching his eyes shut again. Tries to think calming thoughts again, but it's far too late for that. The Kal-Toh construct collapses. Calculating the number of seconds he's been alive  _takes_  seconds and doesn't help at all. Parsing the code that makes Enterprise's navigation systems run, some of which he's already been redesigning and improving upon, with the approval of the Keptin and Starfleet Command, actually makes him harder (something to mention, perhaps, during his next psychological assessment. Only Keptin Kork should love Enterprise  _that_  much. Well . . . and perhaps Commander Scott.)  
  
  
So.  
  
  
His only hope is to make it quick--very much  _not_  a problem, lately--and hope his trousers aren't too . . . messy afterward. Then he can scurry to the showers on this deck (hopefully without anyone noticing the spreading wet spot), put his clothes in the cleaner, himself into the sonic shower, and be presentable in less than ten minutes.  
  
  
The Doctor wouldn't even know he'd been gone, and--again,  _hopefully_ \--will not realize what had occurred in his absence.  
  
  
It's a plan. Not a good one but, as his body is quick to remind him, the only one he's in any shape to execute.  
  
  
Biting his lip, he pulls up the Doctor's sweater, and unbuttons his trousers just enough to slide his hand in. Past the elastic band of his underwear, and  _oh_. . . .  
  
  
He knew he was far gone, but he'd had no idea just  _how_  far. He's barely taken himself in hand before he's arching up in the bed, his other hand clenching in the Doctor's sheets as he's swept away by a tidal wave of an orgasm. Dark eyes and a low, drawling voice follow him into white light, and a soft, devastated  _Doctor_  falls from his lips.  
  
  
And so, he doesn't hear the door to the CMO's quarters  _whoosh_  open, and the homely, unsuspecting--early--clatter of a laden lunch tray.


	9. Fortune's Wager: The Wearing Down of Dr. Leonard McCoy 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's plenty of talking in it, with a promise of pr0n.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Follow up to Fortune's Favor. Spoilers for the movie.

The eulogy-drafting isn't going well.  
  
  
Captain James T. Kirk taps his PADD on his lips despondently, pacing his ready room, and literally staring into space. Getting his last glimpses of it before the Enterprise goes into subspace for the next hour.  
  
  
In the twenty-two odd hours since Ensign Lam's death, Jim's been unable to sleep, between keeping up crew morale, and trying to write her eulogy. Granted, there isn't a person on this ship Jim  _hasn't_  met, hasn't had at least one personal conversation with, doesn't know a  _little_  something about. And Ensign Lam sticks out in his mind more than most: brave, smart, daring, pretty dark eyes, wicked smile.  
  
  
But as always, when confronted with the death of a member of his crew, Jim finds himself tongue-tied. At a loss for adequate words that aren't merely expressions of guilt over his own fatal failing as captain, or just a rehashing of the deceased's professional triumphs in the time that he'd known them.  
  
  
Though there were many such triumphs, (and though he doesn't have to overplay his few personal memories of her, since Sulu, and a few other crewmembers will doubtlessly be doing that) simply listing them seems cold . . . impersonal.  
  
  
 _Pike probably didn't have this problem,_  he thinks, but knows that's likely untrue even as he thinks it. That great captains aren't born, they're  _made_ , by time and experience. By failures, most of all. That even Pike had had his bad days, bad missions, and that those bad ones are more responsible for creating the man Jim so admires--even more than he admires his father, and that's saying something--than all of his many success.  
  
  
He turns away from the lovely view of subspace as the ship sprints into warp.  _Some days, I don't feel ready for this job at all. If it's not pulling asses out of a fire, or of-the-cuff, one-on-one diplomacy, I'm out of my depth. . . ._  
  
  
Sighing, he sits on his desk and tosses the PADD on it. He still staring at it like it's the enemy when the doors to his ready room whoosh open. He looks up, instantly in  _ACTION_ -mode--he'd told Spock he didn't want to be disturbed unless it was dire, and Spock doesn't over-estimate a situation--only to have the surge of adrenaline go flat.  
  
  
“Oh, it's you,” he says, smiling. He can't imagine Bones taking 'no' for an answer from Spock. Can't imagine Spock bothering to give it. Everyone knows Dr. McCoy has free run of the ready room and the Captain. Bones being Bones, he doesn't tend to abuse the privilege.  
  
  
Currently, the good doctor is highly agitated, and carrying a tray full of food. Jim stands up just in time to get the tray shoved at him. There's enough there to feed three, which means it should just about do a hungry captain.   
  
  
“Who's Cap'n Kirk's good little wifey?” Jim coos in his most syrupy tone, and pecks Bones on the cheek--and it's a measure of how distracted Bones is that he merely glares and wipes his face ( _a little more vigorously than is warranted_ , in Jim's opinion).   
  
  
Shrugging--and practically salivating, Jim's eyes drop once more to the tray. A mighty repast, indeed. “How'd you even know I was this hungry?”  
  
  
Bones steps around Jim, and hurls himself moodily into the Captain's chair. “I didn't.”  
  
  
“Aw, I'm hurt.”  
  
  
Patented Bones death-glare. “You're an ass.”  
  
  
“I refer you to the case of  _Rubber_  versus  _Glue_.” Jim places the tray on the table between them and steals a curly sweet potato fry . . . absolutely  _classic_. He sinks into the other, non-Captain-y chair. It isn't as comfortable as his own, but damned if he's going to give Bones the satisfaction of telling him to move his ass. “Well, now that we've gotten the delightful prelims out of the way--and they  _were_  delightful--what can I do you for, Bonesy?”  
  
  
Bones grits his teeth in that way he does, the one that reminds Jim more than a little of his stepdad. "You were right. About everything: I want him. Ensign Chekov. I hope you're happy, now."  
  
  
 _Of course_ , Bones would pick  _now_  to come to his senses. There really  _is_  no such thing as a free lunch. . . .  
  
  
Jim picks up half a sandwich. It's tofu on pumpernickel, sauteed in something, with some kind of sprouts and other veggies (also sauteed in something, no doubt). But no fake meat- or cheese-like substances, just straight-up vegetables. Exactly the kind of thing Bones'd eat, and just the kind of awful prank he'd play on a hungry friend. Jerk. "I'm walking on air for you two, in all honesty. Shouldn't you be, too?"  
  
  
"Because a Russian kid imprinted on me like a baby duck, and I . . . may have had the appallingly bad judgment to reciprocate?" Bones's eyes bug out and that vein in his temple starts to throb. It's like watching performance art, only not boring and pretentious.  
  
  
"'Imprint'?” Jim takes a cautious bite of the sandwich. It's not half bad. Not half good, either--but definitely better than the nasty wheat-grass shakes Bones used to practically tie him down and funnel down his throat back when they were roommates. (Jim does  _not_  miss the awful colon-purgings those shakes spurred almost immediately afterward.) “Is that what all the doctors are calling it, these days?”  
  
  
Bones makes another face. Not the stepdad-face, but the utterly miserable one, that makes Jim feel ten inches tall--and, incidentally, makes him more than willing to drink all the wheat-grass shakes within viewing distance. “Okay. Tell me what happened. I'm all ears.”  
  
  
“You're all  _mouth_ , and not in the way I appreciate,” Bones corrects, and brightens, just a little. At least, he doesn't look like he's about to atmo-dive without a jump-suit, anymore. “Anyway, Pavel--uh, Ensign Chekov. He, uh. Spent the night. In my quarters.”  
  
  
“Which would explain why he wasn't on the Bridge this morning." Jim makes an awkward applause gesture without putting down the sandwich. Sprouts rain down on his desk and lap. "Bones, you sly dog! Spock said you comm'd a doctor's note that the kid wasn't well enough to report for duty today--what the hell did you  _do_  to him? Or do I wanna know? Jesus, as your captain, I'm of course  _very, very_  disappointed in this lapse of judgment, Dr. McCoy, but as your best friend, Bones . . . lemme just say the student has become the master.” He inclines his head in a slight bow.  
  
  
"You've got the table manners of a goddamned three year old--wipe your mouth!" Glaring, Bones grabs a napkin and flings it hard at Jim, who catches it easily, drops it on the fries, and wipes his face with his sleeve, just to make Bones glare harder. That vein's practically the size of an anaconda, and when Bones gets agitated enough, it's like going to the zoo. "And it wasn't like that.”   
  
  
Jim rolls his eyes and selects another half sandwich. More tofu, some kinda pesto. Onions. Beans that don't even have the grace to be re-fried. Scandalous.  
  
  
He takes a bite, feeling very put upon. “Okay, so what  _was_  it like, then?”   
  
  
“He . . . was upset about Ensign Lam's death. Apparently they were close." Bones stares down at his hands. Talented hands that've saved more lives--including Jim's--than even Bones can keep track of. But if anyone knows by now that the weight of all the lives Bones has saved is far less to him than the weight of one life lost . . . it's Jim.  
  
  
He also knows that if there's comfort to be had after losing a person in one's charge . . . it won't be had even from the closest friend.  
  
  
"So I've heard. Last night, I figured the two of you were in the officer's lounge getting hammered, as you've become known for doing." Careful, well-modulated. Not at all a judgment. Jim's been quite a drinker in his own right--still is, occasionally. But he's gotten unused to drinking  _without_  Bones.  
  
  
Drinking with Bones and Pavel, however--trapped between all the unresolved sexual tension and heated, yearning glances--is just plain  _weird_.  
  
  
 _Hell, I wish they'd get together if only so I could get my best friend back the way he was: a grouchy, asexual,_ solid _guy,_  Jim thinks, but shelves it somewhere behind his own feelings about Ensign Lam's death. Captains don't have the luxury of falling apart--even in front of their best and oldest friends.  
  
  
"Maybe we  _should've_  been. Maybe I just should've escorted him back to his own quarters,” Bones says quietly, shoulders sagging a little. “But I was drunk, and no fit company for company, or staggering all over Enterprise. And he went to all the trouble of breaking into my quarters. . . .”   
  
  
Jim laughs a little. He'd considered breaking into Bones's quarters himself--wouldn't be the first or the last time--but had felt this time . . . maybe it wasn't his place to console Bones. And he was right, it seems. It's time to pass the torch on to a successor. "Well. I knew there was a reason I liked that kid."  
  
  
“You  _would_ \--he's like a cleaner, smarter, politer, more charming version of you, you sociopath.”  
  
  
“Jim 2.0 . . . many functions," Jim agrees good-naturedly, doing his best not to crack a smirk at the moony--for Bones--look on his best friend's face. "Unfortunately for him, not better-looking, though.”  
  
  
“I don't suppose anybody's as attractive as you  _think_  you are." Bones snorts. "Anyway, we stayed up half the night, him talking about her, me listening. God, Jim, she was a good kid . . . one who didn't even remotely deserve the kind of awful end she met, and I wish I could've--anyway. Eventually he started to yawn and nod, so I--I picked him up and put him to bed. Laid down next to him. Chivalry or not, I wasn't gonna spend all night on the floor,” Bones adds defensively, and Jim wonders if he realizes how telling that defensiveness is. “It felt damned nice to lay down with someone, to  _hold_  him, and know I was a comfort."  
  
  
“I can see where it would be.” Jim bites his lip. Tries to think of a diplomatic way to phrase his not especially insightful insight. “But I, uh . . . I take it these feelings didn't stop at comfort? For either of you?”  
  
  
“No, they didn't. They  _haven't_ ,” Bones amends, leaning back in the captain's chair till he's practically prone. But that chair's sturdy enough to hold the weight of  _two_  people, even if they aren't particular about staying still. “He's not even my type, goddamnit! He's too skinny, too pale, too  _young_ \--and too damned sunny and open--”  
  
  
“You know what they say about opposites and attraction.” Jim polishes off the sandwich half in two gargantuan bites. Is reaching for another before the last bite is gone. The trick is, he's realized, to not examine the filling too closely. “Besides, speaking as someone who's had the misfortune of meeting your Ex-Wife . . . it seems like the last thing you need is  _your type_.”  
  
  
Bones laughs bitterly. “Jim, the last thing  _I need_  is any type of  _romantic_  entanglement. A friendship-with-benefits might not be so risky, but there're precious few people I like well enough to sport-fuck, but also not so well that I would . . .  _imprint_  on them. Point of fact, there's only  _you_.”  
  
  
Jim chews and thinks. Another half-sandwich expires, it's tangy-bitter-sprouty taste lingering like a spiteful poltergeist. He starts on the fries gratefully.   
  
  
Bones's never made a secret of being attracted to him--no secret that if Jim gave the word, he could have himself a McCoy-flavored, no-strings-attached sex-tacular. And though Jim's never been uncomfortable with that attraction (nor returned it), he's always been bemused by it. Half thinks it's just Bones's weird idea of funny, except . . . that's  _so_  not Bones's style. Not at all.  
  
  
“Bones, you know if I were at all interested in guys, you'd be the first one I'd hurl myself at--”  
  
  
“Meh.” Bones waves his hand dismissively, impatiently, wearing a smirk of his own. “I think you'd be disappointed, Jim. I'm not half Vulcan.”  
  
  
For a long time, that last bomb makes absolutely no sense to Jim, genius-level i.q. notwithstanding. But he twigs pretty quickly, at least to whom Bones is referring--if not why, and  _what_  Spock's got to do with the price of blood wine on the black market. “What's, uh--what's that supposed to mean?”  
  
  
“It means, physician, that you must first heal yourself,” Bones says just several tads smugly.  
  
  
“ _I_  don't need healing,” Jim says, eyes narrowing. He pushes the plate away from him, and slouches low in the chair. “Well . . . okay, I  _do_  have this gross, scaly patch of skin on my--”  
  
  
“Dear,  _God_ , Jim, this isn't the Academy anymore!" Bones levers the captain's chair up halfway, scowling, pointing one blunt-tipped finger at Jim. “Just go to Sickbay and have  _any_  MO who  _isn't me_  check your undercarriage for wear and tear! Honestly! For someone I've never had the dubious honor of fucking, I've seen your John Thomas  _way_  too many times, and--damnit, we're talking about  _me_  for once, so leave your diseased prick out of it!”  
  
  
“ _You_ 're diseased.” Jim glares, but it's not a very good glare. It's actually more of a sullen pout. He just hasn't had as much practice at it as Bones. “And a miserable, annoying bastard.”  
  
  
Another sigh, this one more theatrical than genuine, and Jim could swear Bones is trying not to smile. "It's amazing we've been friends this long, and I haven't once tried to poison you."  
  
  
"Even you couldn't murder something this pretty." Jim bats his eyelashes, and Bones actually laughs, now. The tension of the last few minutes disappears like it never was.  
  
  
"Wanna bet?"  
  
  
"The mood  _you've_  been in lately? No takers. Poor Pavel's got his work cut out for him.” It's called bringing a conversation full circle, and Jim's a master at it. Though not a particularly subtle one.  
  
  
“His accent's goddamned annoying,” Bones grumbles, and Jim quirks a disbelieving eyebrow.  
  
  
“Liar.”  
  
  
“I walked in on him jacking off.”  
  
  
Both eyebrows drift toward Jim's hairline. “Um. What?”  
  
  
Turning red under that olive complexion, Bones clears his throat, and reclines the chair again, covering his eyes eyes with his forearm. “I was taking him the lunch you're so happily laying waste to. When I got back to my quarters he was on my bed, wearing one of my sweaters, and . . . his hand was down his trousers. . . .” he makes the universal stroking-off gesture, something Jim's never seen him do. It's as intriguing as it is disturbing. “God help me, it was the most erotic thing I've seen in years.”  
  
  
“And, you being you, you didn't go over and give him a helping hand--” Bones uncovers his eyes just long enough to glare, and Jim sighs. Of course not. “So what  _did_  you do?”  
  
  
“I . . . backed out the door and came here. He didn't see me. He was, uh, in the midst of, uh--you know. When I walked in. Wouldn't have noticed a neon-pink freight train chooglin' through.” Bones pinches the bridge of his nose hard. “Good thing he  _didn't_  see me. At this point, all he has to do is give me that innocent  _I-vant-you-Doktor_  look and it's like I'm sixteen again, raising wood every time the wind changes and fucking anything that looks good in my goddamned letter jacket.”  
  
  
Jim snorts, and pours himself a glass of water. Drinks it, and pours another, because that  _healthy_  taste really lingers. “So, a hot little Russian has a galaxy-sized crush on you--thinks you're the greatest thing since pattern buffers. He's someone you obviously, to anyone with eyes, want to fuck through his mattress and yours, but . . . you're  _not_  spending your lunch hour busting his cherry for him. Can you not see anything wrong with this picture I've just painted?”  
  
  
Bones groans and levers the chair up suddenly. The look he gives Jim is rueful and resentful--then gone as Bones prowls to the ready room's only window. Unlike Spock's attentive hands-clasped-behind-back stance, Bones tends to stand arms akimbo, like a manager keeping an eye on slacker-employees. "Jesus, have you been paying attention to anything I've said since-- _ever_?”  
  
  
Jim stands, and joins him at the window, though he's never cared for the view while in subspace. It looks  _wrong_  somehow. “Always, Bones. And I listen to what you don't say, too.”  
  
  
“You know, you're really starting to sound like a certain, nameless, pointy-eared bastard.” It doesn't sound quite like an insult, but it's not a compliment either. Since Bones's been spending a huge portion of his spare time with Pavel, Jim's found himself gravitating toward Spock a bit more after shifts. They haven't got a damned thing in common except consciousness and metabolic processes. But there's also the not-so-small matter of the not-quite bond between them, something the Ambassador had hinted at . . . something that'd burned through the mind-meld despite the other, more pressing issues at hand. Glimpses of himself, but not _quite_. Older, seen through the Ambassador's eyes. Through  _Spock_ 's eyes. Colored with something too deep to be anything but love. Multi-faceted and shining, complete and all-consuming.  
  
  
For a few moments, it'd been like finding some lost part of himself. Like coming home. . . .  
  
  
But that hadn't been  _Jim's_  Spock who felt those things. Jim's Spock is actually  _Uhura_ 's Spock. The man who could and did feel--and  _does_ , holy god, those feelings had the strength of the past, present  _and_  future behind them--those incredible things for  _his_ Jim, is spending his remaining years helping to rebuild the Vulcan race and civilization.  
  
  
And anyway, the bottom line is that those feelings were in another life, shared by two other men, so there's no use dwelling on it. The only draw to  _Jim_ 's Spock, is that at least his romantic life is settled, and doesn't join them for a tension-laden drink after shifts. Not often, anyway. “If Spock  _were_  here, Bones, he'd tell you how illogical you're being.”  
  
  
Bones leans his head against the glass and closes his eyes. Even his profile looks strained. “I can't tell you how much of a selling point that is . . . because it's really not,” he says sarcastically, wearily. “And how logical is it to make an intergalactic case out of some kid's damned crush?”  
  
  
"He's not a kid, and he's not the only one with a crush."  
  
  
“So-goddamn-what?” Bones growls fiercely. “I never said I didn't find him . . . tempting. But that doesn't mean anything, except that I need to get laid more. Just  _not_  with him. I don't want to break his heart down the road, and I  _won't_  let him break mine.”  
  
  
"You're presuming an awful lot, here--" Jim starts, but is almost immediately cut off.  
  
  
"I'm really not, Jim. He wants to introduce me to his family! What kid thinks that way? Genius or not?” Dark, harried eyes meet Jim's. “ _Why_  he's got his heart so damned set on me I can't figure. There are better-looking, smarter, younger, nicer, soberer guys on this ship--hell, on  _his deck_. Guys that'd throw themselves in front of a phaser blast to have a chance at him. So why me?"  
  
  
Jim shakes his head. "If you really wanna know the answer, isn't that something you should be asking Pavel?”  
  
  
"I--" Bones looks out the window again, jaw clenched. “I can't give him what he needs. What he  _thinks_  he needs.”  
  
  
“If you haven't talked to him about it, how do you even  _know_  what he needs--let alone whether or not you can give it to him?”  
  
  
“Believe me, I know, Jim. Complete with how he wants me to hold him when he's sad, and what pieces of furniture he wants me to fuck him on.”  
  
  
Unable to prevent the mental snapshot  _that_  calls up, Jim grimaces. Then grudgingly admits the picture's not as horrifying and eyeball-burning as he might've thought. And he knows firsthand that naked!Bones isn't terribly hard on the eyes. . . .  
  
  
“Stop picturing him naked, Jim.”  
  
  
Caught red-handed and red-faced, Jim clears his throat. “Hey--I don't even swing that way.”  
  
  
“Uh-huh. Pull the other one. It plays Foggy Mountain Break-Down.”  
  
  
“And even if I did swing that way, I can picture him naked all I want. It's not like anyone  _else_  on this ship has a prior claim. . . .”  
  
  
“Leave the reverse psychology to someone with the finesse to use it properly."  
  
  
Jim throws up his hands. “Fine. Believe whatever you like, but try and get over your massive self-image issues sometimes this century, or some other guy's gonna get there first. Gonna  _be_  the first.”  
  
  
More clenching of Bones's jaw--Jim's surprised he can't hear enamel shattering. “Good. I wish them joy of each other.”  
  
  
“Oh, really? Tell me picturing some random sleazebag fucking his cute, virgin ass raw doesn't make you even a  _little_  ang-- _agh! Angry enough to choke th' shit outta yer captain! Leggo, asshole!_ ” Jim gasps out despite Bones's forearm pressing warningly against his throat. The window between him and the creepy infinity that is subspace is ice-cold against his back, but Bones's dark eyes seem to burn like twin coals in a visibly red face. "Damnit-- _Bones_!"  
  
  
“If I have reason to  _suspect_  your dick's been anywhere near him--let alone  _in_  him--I'm gonna cut it off and space it before you can say  _security_!” That forearm really presses into Bones's wind-pipe hard for a few seconds, then is gone. Leaving Jim gasping and leaning against the window. For awhile, there's nothing but the sound of harsh breathing, and Bones's unblinking glare.  
  
  
Jim swallows, and nods, and Bones finally looks away. Turns and gets the glass of water--holds it out to Jim as if he hadn't just nearly crushed his wind-pipe.  
  
  
“Oh, and don't drag my goddamned self-image into this.”  
  
  
“ _You're_  the one dragging self-image into this!” Jim rasps, snatching the glass and chugging the water. “Somewhere along the line, you let the Ex-Wife con you into believing you were a fixer-upper. Someone to be tolerated and molded into something better and finer than what you are. You started  _believing_  that bullshit, and when Ethan left you, that just reinforced it!”  
  
  
“See, now there's something you and the Ex-Wife have in common, Jim: you both think everything in my life revolves around him.” He turns away, fists bunched like he's working hard not to belt Jim square on the chin.  
  
  
(Having been belted square on the chin by Bones on one unforgettable occasion--also revolving around the Ex-Wife--Jim certainly appreciates the restraint.)  
  
  
“There's nothing  _wrong_  with you, Bones,” he says hesitantly, reaching out to place his hand on Bones's shoulder. It's like touching rock. “Look, you're the best person I know, and you deserve someone who sees that--who accepts your many, many flaws, and loves you in spite of them. Maybe even because of them.”  
  
  
Slowly, the shoulder under Jim's hand relaxes somewhat, and finally Bones glances at him, the vaguest suggestion of dimples bracketing his wry smile. “Jim, are you having a lifestyle revelation I should be privy to?”  
  
  
"Dream on, Jethro. All I'm saying is--you're a catch, and you don't even know it. Maybe that's  _why_  you're a catch, I dunno how these things work." Jim shoves Bones's shoulder companionably, and sits in the captain's chair. Adjusts the angle to  _juuuust_  the way he likes it. “Don't even know what the hell a 'catch'  _is_ , exactly, except that I'm the guy people wanna fuck, and no one in their right mind wants to keep. You're the guy people wanna fuck  _and_  keep, hence: a catch. Just ask Pavel. Or your Andorian bartender. Or Yeoman Keough. Or--"  
  
  
Bones covers his ears, looking aggrieved. "Jesus, stop! I don't wanna know who these people  _are_!"  
  
  
Jim grins, swinging his feet up onto the desk. It makes Spock cringe when he does that, but Bones doesn't so much as roll his eyes. “Well. It's been like this since the Academy. Half the guys we knew were throwing themselves at you, at one time or another. The other half were probably seriously considering it. You chose to ignore the attention, and I let it slide, because none of those guys put together were worth a third of Pavel Chekov. But I can't hold my piece anymore. Not when I see you about to make the biggest mistake I've ever seen you make.”  
  
  
“Jim--” Bones sits heavily in the other chair, elbows braced on knees, forearms hanging between them . . . hands dangling like landed fish. “I've got more baggage than even a lover my own age should have to deal with, let alone someone who's never been in a relationship. The both of us could screw each other up and over without even trying.  _Yes_ , I like him. In a perfect world, that'd be enough. I'd sweep him up into my arms and we'd ride off into the sunset, like Gary Cooper and Merle Oberon. . . but that's just not the way reality works, Jim. It's all too likely I'll wind up hurting him, despite my best intentions."  
  
  
“Can't you see that by  _not_  trusting him to make his own decisions you're doing just that? Hurting him?” Jim asks, but it's clear that's exactly what Bones  _can't_  see. Or he does see, and thinks it's less hurtful than the alternative. “Love isn't magic, Bones. It doesn't make  _your_  baggage or  _his_  inexperience go away, or not matter. But it  _does_  make those things worth overcoming. Worth  _fighting_ , because the payoff? Is gonna be so worth it. But you  _have_  to be willing to fight for what you want. Am I--am I getting  _through_  to you at all?”  
  
  
Bones hangs his head for a long time. When he looks up, he's smiling though it doesn't reach his tired eyes. “Listen, can I ask a favor?”  
  
  
Despite being wary of this seeming change of subject, Jim nods once, putting his feet down and leaning forward. The Jim Kirk listening-pose. “Anything. You name it.”  
  
  
Bones clears throat again and focuses on his hands. Hands that've done more good and will always do more good than any harm Bones thinks himself capable of. “Could I . . . take a personal afternoon? I can make the time up before or after some other shift, I just--there are some things I really need to do--”  
  
  
“Are you kidding me? Sure, go get 'im, tiger!” Jim tries to catch Bones's eye, but can't. Finally he stands up and puts his hands on Bones's shoulders. “In all seriousness--I've never seen you as happy as you've been since you started palling around with Pavel. I'd like to see you that happy all the time.  
  
  
“That kid's crazy about you, and you're crazy about him. Find a way to make it work between you two, okay?”  
  
  
Bones smiles that tired smile again, and squeezes Jim's hands for a moment before gently removing them. He makes eye contact at last, and there's resolve in his gaze. Resolve and something else Jim can't quite read, but can only hope is the light of reason. That love'll save the day, after all.  
  
  
But he can't help feeling a tickle of unease.  
  
  
It's a feeling that sticks around, long after Bones and lunch are a distant memory, and Ensign Lam's eulogy, still only half written, mocks him from amidst crumbs and stray fry-fragments.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Bones steels himself in front of doors that seem a thousand feet tall, not at all certain about the smartness--the  _rightness_  of what he's doing.  
  
  
He wonders if maybe . . . maybe Jim was right, after all.  
  
  
Certainly Bones's libido seems to agree with Jim. All he can think about is Pavel Chekov in his bed, hand in his trousers, the creamy, perfect arch of his throat as he throws his head back and the violent pink flush of his face. The brief, pale swatch of stomach as he bucks up and the sweater slips askew, and the vivid scarlet of his bottom lip as he bites it  _hard_ , and gasps . . . moaning and moaning  _Doctor_  and  _Leonard_ , and other things in Russian that Bones couldn't make heads nor tails of, but wants to taste on his lips. . . .  
  
  
Against this mental snapshot--one that he'll remember fondly on his death-bed--Bones's reasons  _not to_  can't stand. He wants Pavel so badly, not having him feels like suffocating. Feels worse than any hangover, only Bones'd gladly swear to never touch another hair of the dog if he could trade that long-time addiction for this sudden one.  
  
  
He wants to be drunk on this kid, and that . . . is just how it felt to be with Ethan almost from day one: a giddy, natural high that was _so_  damned giddy and high, that the corresponding lows were unbearable. So when Ethan finally left him, it took him six months and innumerable bottles to climb out of that awful valley of death. And he knows himself well enough to be sure that he's most of the way out, yes, but not completely.  
  
  
Not sufficiently out to take another header right into that same sort of madness again. Not so soon--no, not  _ever_. Not even for Pavel who, Jim was right, would never purposely hurt him.  
  
  
But Bones knows just what the road to Hell is paved with. And it ain't asphalt.  
  
  
 _Never again,_  he promises himself, leaning his head against the door for a moment. The Pavel in his imagination opens those big, dreamy blue eyes and pouts at him with still-red, bitten lips. He looks completely debauched, and indescribably sexy in Bones's sweater (like it was made for him to appropriate from Bones's closet), but--  
  
  
 _Sorry, kid. I can't._  
  
  
It takes him precisely  _forever_  to makes his presence known--petition for entry. It takes half again as long to get a response. In fact, the door opens only a moment before Bones's nerve would've broken entirely under the weight of his conscience.  
  
  
Blue, blue eyes take him--and the monster of an erection tenting the front of his trousers--in with no more warmth or interest than he supposes he deserves. He feels like the kind of cad he's often accused Jim of being.  
  
  
“Well. This is an unexpected surprise . . . do you require my assistance, Dr. McCoy?”  
  
  
“You, uh, could say that,” Bones says lowly, crowding the doorway before he loses his nerve. He receives no reaction, positive or otherwise, but brazens it out. Squares his shoulders and moves even closer, though something-- _something_  about that cool, unaffected gaze and infinitesimally disdainful smile makes him feel like a stain on an expensive white carpet. "Look, I. . . ."  
  
  
Moon-white eyebrows lift gently in politely disinterested query, but other than that, there's still no give. No tell in the form of animated, emotive antennae . . . they simply point unswervingly at Bones.  
  
  
This isn't going to be cheap. Or easy.  
  
  
 _Ah, fuck it. I never did like cheap and easy, anyway_ , Bones thinks, and bunches his hands in the heavy, coarse fabric of Shrijn's loose-weave shirt--violates normally inviolable personal space with clumsy fingers and a hungry mouth.  
  
  
At first all he notices is that this is  _nothing_  like kissing Pavel. Then he realizes it's nothing like kissing  _anyone_. For too long, there's simply no response. Nothing at all. No softening of that disdainful mouth, or parting of full, forget-me-not lips.  
  
  
 _This was a mistake._  Bones would've been better off tracking down Yeoman Keough, or--  
  
  
Then Shrijn's hands land on his wrists in a cool, unbreakable grip, and Bones is dragged him into unfamiliar quarters, into an unfamiliar  _kiss_  that's drowning-deep, and licorice-sweet.  
  



	10. Fortune's Wager: The Wearing Down of Dr. Leonard McCoy 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lasties for "Wager."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Follow up to Fortune's Favor.

When they've gotten deep enough into his quarters that the doors  _whoosh_  shut, Shrijn stops kissing him just long enough to tell the computer--in a husky,  _tense_  voice that goes straight Bones's formerly flagging erection--to re-lock them.  
  
  
Then Bones is being slammed against those same doors and kissed to within an inch of his life again. Strong, not terribly gentle hands rub and knead his hips, and Shrijn's mouth is a warm, wet wonderland of talented tongue and hard, slippery teeth. Bones's fingers dig into dense pectoral muscles, and he moans. Lets his hands roam under shirt, over shoulders and back, and notices _scars. Many_  of them: slashes, stabs, grazes and gouges--even a few old burns.   
  
  
“Sweet Christ.” He breaks the kiss and traces a long, winding scar like a backslash from nape of Shrijn's neck (up into the hair, just a little), over ribs padded with muscles that flutter in the wake of Bones's fingers, down to the top of one narrow hip. Dark, deep-set eyes hold his gaze calmly.  
  
  
“Who the hell  _were_  you, before you were  _Shrijn, Bartender Extraordinaire_?” he asks quietly, not entirely sure he wants to know. Especially when Shrijn's smile turns absent, and a little too casual.  
  
  
“No one of consequence, I assure you,” is the reply Bones gets. And clearly the only one he's to receive, so he follows the scar back up to Shrijn's nape and pulls him close again.  
  
  
“You really oughtta take this shirt off,” he pants into and around licorice-kisses, and Shrijn laughs, the same seething, menacing laugh that's really not so menacing, after all. At least not at this moment.  
  
  
“Only my shirt, then?” Shrijn's he laughs again, but a bit breathlessly, and Bones slides his hands around and down. Grabs his ass--as muscular and defined as his chest--and squeezes, gazing into eyes that aren't remotely cold, now.  
  
  
“No, not just your shirt,” he says, pushing his hands down the back of draw-string trousers and finding only cool skin waiting beneath. His head falls back against the door and he grins. “Tell me, do Andorians generally like to fuck against doors, or are you an anomaly?”  
  
  
“Doctor--” Shrijn darts in and latches onto his earlobe with square teeth. “One of the things I've always found particularly attractive about you is your mouth.”  
  
  
“Is that-- _Jesus H. Christ_ , Shrijn!” Bones yelps as he's effortlessly, efficiently picked up and swung over a broad shoulder without warning. Bangs his foot against the wall in the midst of flailing, then leaves off altogether when Shrijn about-faces and carries him deeper into dimly lit quarters.  
  
  
As a civilian entrepreneur, he rates slightly larger quarters than the average ensign or midshipman, but nowhere near as large as Bones's quarters, or Jim's. So it's not long before Bones is dumped on an extremely firm mattress.  
  
  
“Ow. Fuck.” He closes his eyes and waits for the vertigo to pass. By the time it does, he cracks one eyelid to find Shrijn already shirtless and stepping out of his trousers.  
  
  
He's built like a fullback, not an uncommon trait among Andorian males of a certain genetic grouping. His shoulders and chest are broad, his hips narrow, his arms and legs thick with muscle. He's a vivid, even cobalt blue all over, and not nearly as hairy as Bones tends to expect from a species that evolved in cold that'd kill a human.  
  
  
There's really only a fine covering of white hair on his chest, and a trail of it down to his groin, but other than that . . . other than that. . . .  
  
  
Bones is aware that he's completely lost his train of thought, staring at Shrijn's cock like a wide-eyed virgin. But even that awareness isn't enough to get his cognitive train back on track.  
  
  
Because even only half hard, it's obvious that Shrijn's  **big**. As in . . .  _thank-God-I'm-topping-and-he's-not-for-I'd-surely-be-riven-in-two_   **big**.  
  
  
“You're . . . gorgeous,” Bones says, changing adjectives from  _gi-fucking-normous!_  at the last moment, and Shrijn looks both surprised and bemused.  
  
  
“Thank you, Doctor. I would return the compliment, but I fear it might seem . . . somewhat disingenuous as you're still so over-dressed.”  
  
  
It's the sort of unsubtle hint he'd have expected from Jim, who's got all the subterfuge of a paper napkin. To hear it fall from  _Shrijn_ 's lips is . . . flattering. Emboldening. He shucks his shirts in a trice, then lays back and undoes his fly deliberately. One button, then the near silent clicks as the zipper slides down each and every hasp. In half-conscious imitation of Pavel--who he is definitely  _not_ thinking about, not even subconsciously--he slides on hand into his boxers. The other hand he rests lightly on his stomach.  
  
  
Before he so much as touches himself, he makes sure has Shrijn's complete, undivided attention . . . he's got it, alright. And the attention of the Giant Blue Cock--as in  _standing at_.  
  
  
It's like being stared down by a one-eyed sea monster, but if there's one thing Bones can do in bed, it's bring the show. Especially when the first stroke does all the work of getting him fully in the mood. Not that it's such a long trip. He's been half hard since--  
  
  
But there's no point going  _there_ , is there? Not when he's got Someone Else here, willing to help him take the edge off, and thus get his mind back in control without his dick constantly hijacking the reins.  
  
  
 _Best plan ever_ , he reminds himself, biting his tongue to keep from panting like a thirsty dog.  
  
  
Shrijn's eyes are glued to Bones's hand as it moves under the cover of trousers and boxers. A tip of tongue, Egyptian-blue, darts out to wet those forget-me-not lips, and Bones remembers something--amazing, since he's not sure he could recite the first half of the alphabet, at this moment. “So why the hell do you taste like licorice?”  
  
  
“I just so happened to be enjoying some when you called on me.” Shrijn nods at his night table, and when Bones glances over, sure enough: a big plastic container of red licorice whips sits there. He laughs.  
  
  
“You're . . . damned odd. Even for an alien.” But that oddness is unexpectedly alluring, and Bones . . . is very much in a mood to be allured. He strokes a little slower, a little harder. His eyes want to close, but he needs to see every moment of this. To brand it onto his brain and seal out other . . . distractions. “Sexy? Hell, yes . . . but decidedly odd.”  
  
  
Shrijn kneels on the bed, between Bones's legs, splaying one hand (calloused and large) on Bones's chest before sliding it downward, over ribs and stomach. His smile turns positively evil when Bones arches under this touch like an affection-starved stray. “Hmm. You . . . don't approve of licorice, Dr. McCoy?”  
  
  
“Normally, I don't. I  _despise_  candy--it's the ruination of a good set of teeth. But in this case . . . I don't mind so much,” he adds in a rush, lifting his hips as Shrijn's fingers hook into his boxers and trousers, and drag them down. Slowly enough that the friction nearly sends Bones screaming up the wall. When the last of the fabric clears the tip of his cock, he makes a strangled noise and almost comes . . . but for Shrijn's hand suddenly clamped around the base just a tad too tightly to be arousing.  
  
  
“Not so fast, Dr. McCoy.”  
  
  
“Sorry. It's, uh . . . it's been awhile.” Bones grins sheepishly, and closes his eyes. Recites the symptoms of transporter psychosis until he feels some measure of control returning. Till Shrijn's grip loosens, becomes a soothing stroke, and licorice-sweet lips cover his own mumbling ones. His thumb brushes slowly, torturously across Bones's glans before disappearing altogether, along with the kisses  
  
  
When Bones opens his eyes, Shrijn's are sweeping ceaselessly over his body.  
  
  
Feeling unusually shy--Bones's  _never_  suffered from body shyness, or had a body that one might be shy about showing--he levers himself up onto his elbows and watches Shrijn watch him. Clears his throat. “About what you expected?”  
  
  
“More.” Shrijn's eyes meet his, and a small, wicked smile curves his lips. “Or . . . less.”  
  
  
“Asshole.” Bones tries to kick Shrijn's legs out from under him, and topple him off the bed--but Bones is himself hobbled by his own trousers and boxers, which Shrijn yanks off easily, and tosses away. Then he grabs Bones's ankles and drags him down the bed despite kicking and indignant swearing.  
  
  
Both of which stop when his thighs wind up on Shrijn's and the Blue Sea Monster winds up nudging someplace rather intimate.  
  
  
As fast as he'd found himself being carried, Bones finds himself prone on the bed: one hand pinned to the bed above him, one leg bent damn near to his shoulder, and Shrijn's intent face right above his own. “I've always wanted to be inside a human . . . you give off such extravagant  _heat_. . . .”  
  
  
Bones angles his pelvis  _away_  from the Sea Monster . . . but somehow, now that it's poking high in the thigh, it's no less intimidating. Jesus. “Is that so? Well, every man should have a goal in life, but, uh. Sorry, darlin'. I top.”  
  
  
Shrijn's lips purse and the antennae droop just a little before pointing alertly at Bones again, though he seems amused again. “Surely not exclusively?”  
  
  
“Yes, exclusively!” Which is true. Or at least it has been since . . . since he met Ethan, so for over a decade. But before that, Leo McCoy had a reputation for being an anything goes sort of fellow. However, mere inches away from the biggest dick he's ever seen doesn't seem like the time to revive that rep.  
  
  
But some of those provisos must show on his face, because Shrijn's still looks mildly amused, as if he suspects Bones is stringing him along. “Look, I said  _I top_!”  
  
  
“As do I. I am a  _thaan_.” Shrijn's eyebrows lift meaningfully, and the hand on Bones's ankle slides down to his thigh, and around to his balls . . . further back, until he's yet again one shallow thrust away from penetration. “You being a doctor, I'm certain you know what that means.”  
  
  
Bones groans as that finger presses and teases. He knows alright. After the little not-such-a-mix-up-after-all of a month ago, he made a point of brushing up on his Andorii. Including what  _chan_  meant, as well as the other three Andorian sexes. Not that there'd been much to read, Andorians being damned closed-mouths about their mating habits. “It means you fuck, but you don't  _get_ fucked.”  
  
  
Shrijn's eyebrows practically disappear under his hair, and the antenna lay so flat, Bones can barely see them. If Shrijn were human, he'd be laughing his ass off. “If that is how you choose to see it, yes. Traditionally speaking, my gender dictates that I fuck, but do not get fucked.”  
  
  
“And you're not an Andorian who breaks with tradition lightly.”  
  
  
“No, I'm not.”  
  
  
Bones scoots back a bit and looks at Shrijn's erection with real trepidation. It's not freakishly large (barely), but large enough to give one serious pause for consideration. And dismay. And possibly a future inferiority complex.  
  
  
And Bones  _is_  a doctor, most definitely  _not_  an engineer, but. . . .  
  
  
“I hate to break it to ya, but  _that_  behemoth ain't gonna fit where you want it to fit,  _thaan_ , or not. In fact, I don't think it'd fit in the Holland-goddamn-Tunnel!”  
  
  
“Doctor, I'm only going to get one chance at having you--don't bother implying otherwise. Humans aren't the only ones who try to repress unlooked for emotional attachments through meaningless sex with a . . . substitute. Only to later discover that such feelings aren't so easily obscured or denied.” One index finger strokes Bones's wrist softly, soothingly. The other brushes past his perineum once more, causing a cascade of shivers that leave Bones biting his lip again to keep from moaning.   
  
  
“I told you once that I had no interest in being a substitute for your  _chan_ , and I meant that. However, if you wish to share my bed, I welcome you. But we  _will_  share it on  _my_  terms. Which means . . . I fuck you. If this condition is unacceptable, I will not attempt to hold you here.” The hand pressing his wrist to the bed loosens, and the finger teasing his entrance vanishes. Bones is surprised to discover he misses it. “Nor will I . . . hold your return to common sense against you.”  
  
  
Well. It's nice to know leaving's still an option, but Bones has committed himself to this course of action. And though the idea of Shrijn's cock coring him like a Macintosh still fills him an emotion not unlike the screaming me-mes, he finds himself more worried about what Shrijn had said about discovering that repressed feelings weren't easy to obscure or deny. . . .  
  
  
 _He's right. This isn't gonna work, Bones. Not the way you want it too. You'll only want Pavel more, afterwards. And you'll feel like shit for cheating on him,_  a voice in his head--it sounds a lot like Jim, actually--says sadly. As if it knows it won't be heeded, and is making only a token protest.  
  
  
 _Shut up, Jim, this isn't cheating,_  he tells the voice, otherwise ignoring the warning.  _It's not like Pavel and I are dating, dinner-dates notwithstanding--_  
  
  
Bones surfaces from his scattered thoughts when he's kissed--not the urgent, overwhelming kiss of before, but something a bit gentler, almost playful--and Shrijn's solid, powerful body settles between his legs He's heavy, but not unpleasantly so, and his hard-on isn't as terrifying when it's sliding enticingly against Bones's own proportionate, but otherwise unremarkable one.  
  
  
"I will prepare you thoroughly and carefully," Shrijn murmurs, his kisses wending their way to Bones's throat, where they quickly turn into nipping bites. "And I will not hurt you . . . much," he adds, and Bones can feel the tiny smirk, cool and ticklish on his skin.  
  
  
"Gee, that's comforting. Take me now," he deadpans, or tries to, but the way Shrijn's moving against him takes the sarcastic wind out of  _that_  sail. So Bones settles for tilting his head back to give better access. He's always been a sucker for necking, and Shrijn seems happy to oblige him with tongue, lips, and teeth.  
  
  
Between that and the friction from the Sea Monster, and Bones is quickly headed for Happy-Not-Thinking-Land--on the express shuttle. He grins, and reaches up to Shrijn's hair . . . winds a lock of it around his finger. It's feathery, and baby-fine, a glowing, moon-colored corona. And in the midst of the glorious mess, antenna gravitate toward Bones's hand like curious serpents.  
  
  
"I like your hair."  
  
  
"Mm. . . ."  
  
  
“And your antenna, they're . . . could I . . . would you mind if I touched them?”   
  
  
Shrijn's body tenses above him--Bones prepares to be tossed out of bed because clearly:  _antenna, off limits, check_ \--but immediately lets out a breath as if he's been punched. “Not at all, Doctor,” he says, though it's actually more of groan, and is accompanied by a slightly more aggressive, less measured thrust of his hips. The Sea Monster glides wetly against him, grown noticeably warmer than the rest of the big, blue body in his arms.  
  
  
 _Always an adventure when screwing an alien, Bonesy. A naked, sweaty adventure. Sometimes with tentacles,_  the Jim-voice says wistfully. (Although this is something actual-Jim has said ad nauseum.)  
  
  
He runs a feather-light finger from root to tip of the right antennae, and Shrijn groans again, no longer kissing or biting, just pressing his face to Bones's neck, breathing hard and shallow. Humping Bones harder.  
  
  
Running a finger down the left antennae gets the same reaction, only a bit more . . . helpless.  
  
  
Christ, The Sea Monster's getting restless--practically trying to bore a hole in Bones's pelvis. “You, uh . . . really think you can fuck me with this thing, without splittin' me up the middle like a rotten log?” Bones asks doubtfully, and Shrijn sighs, one hand pushing Bones's left leg out to the side and caressing the sensitive skin of inner thigh.  
  
  
“I do . . . will you allow me to show you, Doctor?”  
  
  
Bones takes a steadying breath and nods once-- _best plan_  ever, he reminds himself--but Shrijn's already trailing kisses down his chest and stomach . . . is puffing cool, moist air on Bones's cock, and pinning his hips to the bed when he starts to buck a little.  
  
  
It's been so long that the pleasure of this, the anticipation is almost like pain, almost shocks the desire right out of him. For one clear-headed moment, he wonders where Pavel is right now, if he's still waiting, still in Bones's bed--  
  
  
\--Bones wishes to God he were in that bed with him. . . .  
  
  
Then Shrijn's mouth closes around him, wet and perfect and the blessed antidote of coherent thought.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The memorial service for Ensign Lam is set to begin in about another quarter of an hour, and Bones has spent the last thirty-five minutes brooding in Deck 17 Observation Gallery.  
  
  
Leaning on the railing at the window because his ass is still too sore for sitting to be comfortable.  
  
  
In the month since he was last here, Bones hasn't thought about this place once. He's been too busy eating and drinking and letting the ensign sneak past his defenses to spare even a passing thought for a large, dark, often empty room, and a large, dark, often empty view. But it matches his mind and mood perfectly tonight. Tonight. . . .  
  
  
. . . the Gallery is completely empty, but for him. There  _had been_  several ensigns and midshipmen (in their dress uniforms) congregating as far from the door as possible when Bones first came in--after which they left rather shortly. And even though Bones knows they weren't passing judgment on him, simply wrapped up in their own concerns and grief, he can't help but feel like a pariah.  
  
  
Because he couldn't save one of their own, because he . . . what could be construed as “cheated” on . . . one of their own. The reasons for pariah-dom see-saw, change from moment to moment.  
  
  
His body feels wrung out, scrambled about the innards and sated, the way it hasn't been in years. He feels calm, and mellow, if not especially happy. But for the soreness, and the discomfort of the damned dress uniform on his still sensitized skin, Bones is strangely content. He can't imagine leaving the Observation Gallery for anywhere else--and that includes Deck Ten Forward, for the memorial service of a girl who's far too young to be so dead.  
  
  
Dead not for lack of trying, sure, but then close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades, as Bones's dear Grand-Mama, had been so fond of telling him. If sorry brought back the dead, Bones's spend his days in ashes and sack-cloth, and his nights beating his breast. . . .  
  
  
“You look  _so handsome_.”  
  
  
Bones looks away from the profusion of galaxies and at Pavel Chekov, the only person he could he could imagine sharing this view with in silence, besides Jim. He's every inch the dashing young ensign in his own dress reds, his curly hair brushed and tamed into temporary submission.  
  
  
“You, too.” Bones doesn't know what else to say. “Like a Starfleet recruitment ad. Best and brightest, and all that.”  
  
  
“Hardly. But you . . . if Trinh vere here, she vould be making eyes at you,” Pavel says, smiling a little, reaching up to straighten a medal and smooth a collar. It's such a  _wife_ -ly thing to do, and Bones is surprised to feel wistful. For what, he doesn't care to examine.  
  
  
“How're you holding up?” he asks, catching Pavel's hand and holding it to his chest. The kid takes a breath, but doesn't meet Bones's eyes. He seems bound and determined to not raise his gaze above the collar he straightened.  
  
  
“Not so vell,” he says softly, his brow furrowing--mouth trembling a little. But he turns the tremble into a smile and those soulful blue eyes meet Bones's for a moment, measuring and unreadable under longish lashes. “I vaited for you, but you did not come back.”  
  
  
Anxiety churns his empty stomach, and Bones sighs, a little of the zen-of-the-well-fucked wearing off. He really hadn't anticipated having to talk to Pavel until after the service. Maybe not for a few days after. No doubt his friends--and there are many, all of them protective, and none moreso than Hikaru Sulu--would keep him close for at least that long. Giving Bones much-needed room to think, and sort himself out. Time to figure out if having his guts rearranged by a blue alien did what he'd hoped it might do. “About that--”  
  
  
“Vill . . . Mr. Shrijn be at the memorial, or vill you be attending alone?”  
  
  
“I was planning on attending alone.” The churning in Bones's stomach is made worse by the fact that not only does the kid somehow  _know_ , but he knows  _now_ , on the eve of his dead friend's memorial. Knows . . . when he already looks like he's made of glass and spun sugar, and clearly doesn't need anymore hurt ladled onto an already full plate.  
  
  
“It's like no one on this ship has anything better to do than gossip,” he grits out, running a hand through his hair. The corner of Pavel's mouth quirks wryly. “I'm sorry, kid.”  
  
  
“You do not need to apologize to me. And it vas not gossip. I accessed the ship's security recordings for today, to find out vhere you vere.”  
  
  
Bones opens his mouth--then shuts it. Tries again, though that doesn't save him from inanity. “You don't have the rank or clearance to access those recordings when you're not on the Bridge, Ensign.”  
  
  
Pavel laughs quietly. “Respectfully, sir, vhat I  _can_  do, often out-paces vhat I have clearance to do. And vhile I do not make a habit of hacking Enterprise's security systems . . . I vas . . . frantic. No vone knew vhere you vere, so I vent digging. But I did not cower my tracks at all. If you vish to have me wreetten up, Doctor, it vould not be hard to find ewidence--”  
  
  
“I  _don't_  want to have you written up, Pavel, Jesus!” Bones pinches the bridge of his nose. The little bit of zen he had left blows apart like a birdhouse with a lit M80 shoved inside. “Look, I think we need to go somewhere quiet and have a talk after the service. There are some things I should tell you. . . .”  
  
  
“I vould actually prefer it if you did not, sir. Respectfully.” Eyes like Earth's sky meet his, sad and tired. “Vhat you do vith Mr. Shrijn is, I tink, not my business.”  
  
  
The kid's halfway to the door before Bones thinks to go after him--and even a light jog across a few carpeted yards is a bitch, after this afternoon. But he catches Pavel just  _at_  the doors, which  _whoosh_  open as he grabs the kid's hand. Leaning against the opposite wall, in the corridor, also in their dress reds, are Sulu and Scotty. The former is glaring, and starts forward when he sees Bones. The latter catches Sulu's arm and hauls him back, murmuring in his ear placatingly and rubbing his arm.  
  
  
Sulu inclines his head in assent, but nods without taking his eyes off of Bones.  
  
  
 _Huh. I wonder how long_ that's _been going on,_  Bones thinks, his own gaze ticking back and forth between the chief engineer and the helmsman.  
  
  
Then he realizes he couldn't care less if he tried, and tugs Pavel back inside. “Now, wait just a minute, Ensign--”  
  
  
“Let  _go_  of me, Dr. McCoy.” But Pavel doesn't do anything to make that happen. Doesn't resist when Bones drags him back away from the doors (which thankfully shuts on Sulu's silent disapproval and Scotty's wide-eyed curiosity), until they reach one of the Gallery's many small, shadowy alcoves.  
  
  
There's just barely enough room for the two of them to face each other without touching, though it's obvious that  _not touching_  isn't something either of them want.  
  
  
Finally, Pavel leans his head back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut, his nostrils flairing like he's not getting enough oxygen. “I cannot control how I feel for you, but I  _vill_ , henceforth, curb such inappropriate behaviors as I have recently giwen in to. And I apologize for . . . vhat you saw me doing this morning. I have no excuses, and can only hope that some day you might forgive me.”  
  
  
It has the ring of a practiced speech, and Bones leans back against his own bit of wall. His head aches and he wishes he were drunk.  
  
  
“Pavel, there's nothing to feel ashamed about, or forgive, I--” the words stick in his throat for a few seconds, even now. But even this admission is far better than letting Pavel continue to beat himself up. He's the innocent in this mess. “I want you, alright? I walked in on you, doing  _that_ , and looking . . . how you looked, and I  _wanted you_. I  _still_  want you, and it scares the shit outta me. _You_  scare the shit outta me, Pavel.”  
  
  
Pavel snorts, his mouth twisting in a rueful smile Bones's never seen on his boy-next-door face--and frankly wishes to God he hadn't put there. “You vanted me so much, you vent to Mr. Shrijn's qvarters.”  
  
  
Bones flushes--half guilty, and half turned-on in remembrance, both of Pavel and Shrijn, and thank goodness he's too damn drained to get hard, at the moment. “Actually . . . yeah. That's about the size and shape of it.”  
  
  
The calm facade cracks, now, and Pavel swears in Russian, shaking his head. “You  _vant me_ , so you make love to  _him_? You are crazy, perhaps? Because this is not sound reasoning! Maybe you are just cruel, and  _I_  am crazy for vanting anyting to do vith you!” He shoves his way out of the alcove, and Bones grabs his arm again. Yanks him back again. Latches onto wiry arms and  _shakes_ him.  
  
  
“God _damn_ it, Ensign, will you stop being such a drama queen and  _listen_  to me?”  
  
  
“The only thing I vant to listen to is vhy you vill not let me be vith you.” His voice cracks a little, and he  _really_  looks like he's about to cry . . . then he blinks and levels a glare Bones that's still more than half anguished. “Vhy, vhen you just admitted that you vant to be vith me, too?”  
  
  
“It's not that simple--” Bones begins, and Pavel's suddenly pressed against him. Even in the dimness off the alcove, his eyes seem to glow.  
  
  
“Nyet. It  _is_  this simple, Doctor. At least . . . it is, if you vill let it be,” he murmurs, kissing close. But it's Bones who closes the distance between them. Kisses, for the first time, instead of merely letting himself be kissed.  
  
  
Pavel returns it desperately, passionately--all the things Bones values in a kiss, wrapped in the tastes of youth and spearmint toothpaste.  
  
  
Whatever Big Blue did for him, it didn't diminish the rightness of  _this_. Of Pavel-goddamn-Chekov pressed against him, kissing him.  
  
  
Internalized-Jim was right: Bones only wants Pavel more now, for having had someone else.  
  
  
He starts to pull away . . . gets pushed against the wall for his trouble, and kissed again. The kid is half-hard, and getting harder on Bones's thigh. One inexperienced hand fumbles--jarringly--between them for the erection Bones won't be getting for several more hours, at least. “No, Pavel, listen--”  
  
  
“Please, please,” Pavel whispers, giving up on getting Bones hard for the moment, his hands coming up to cup Bones's face. “Please, I do not care about--about vhatever you did vith Mr. Shrijn. I only care vhat you do vith me--Doctor . . .  _Leonard_ , please. . . .”  
  
  
That does it. Flips a switch that seems to only exist where cute, Russian geniuses are concerned. He should be incapable of getting hard, but . . . shoulda, coulda, woulda . . . did it. Bones groans silently as his body defies its own set of physics and rallies--rallies despite the fact that it's goddamned  _painful_ , and he's still over-sensitized enough that even his boxers chafe. “Stop. I'm not . . . ready, Pavel.”  
  
  
“But  _I am_! I have  _been_  ready for  _six months_!” He leans in, nuzzling Bones's neck, gently teasing skin with his teeth. For someone with next to no experience he's too damned good at this. Or Bones just wants him too damned much. “I vant you more than I have ewer vanted  _anyting_ , and I am  _ready_. You are so beautiful. Please. . . .”  
  
  
Bones turns his face. Not away, like he should, but toward, burying his nose in no-longer-tamed hair that smells . . . incredible. “Oh, God, Pavel. I don't mean I'm not ready to have sex. If that was all either of us wanted, I'd have had you on your stomach a month ago and we'd have moved on with our lives. No, I mean  _love_. I'm not ready for that--to lose myself in it . . . in you. And to be honest, I may  _never_  be. I need time to heal, or move on, or do whatever it is I've been trying to do for the past four years. I've been burned too badly to skip blithely into perdition a third time . . . though, the last time I felt this way about anyone, I wound up on bended knee, proposing to him.”  
  
  
Pavel looks up at Bones; those big blue eyes get even bigger before closing. Tears spill out, anyway. “How can you tell me you do not vant to be vith me, and in the wery same breath, you bring up  _marriage? Vhy_  are you being so  _cruel_?”  
  
  
“I'm not—“ Bones leans back against the wall. “Jesus, I'm shit at this--I'm not trying to be cruel--”  
  
  
“--so the cruelty is merely an unfortunate side effect of you being a beeg jerk?”  
  
  
“You're right. I  _am_  a jerk, Pavel. But one who cares enough about you not to saddle you with  _me_.” Bones takes one of Pavel's hands and kisses it. “I want what's best for you, and right now, that's not being with a bitter, angry, fucked-up drunk who wants to, but  _cannot_  be what you need or give you what you deserve.”  
  
  
“Who are you to decide vhat is best for  _me_?” Pavel exclaims, and it's a cliché, but he's beautiful when he's angry. If Bones's ever seen anything  _more_  beautiful, he can't recall it at present. “And how  _dare_  you play arbiter of my life vhen you do not ewen have the courage to be vith me?”  
  
  
Bones has no answer for that. Can't hold that broken-open gaze any longer. “I'm sorry, Pavel . . . I don't wanna hurt you. I wish I could make you understand.”  
  
  
“And I vish I could make  _you_  understand--but I vill not hold my breath hoping for miracles!” Pavel steps out of the alcove again. This time, Bones doesn't try to stop him, merely watches him pace a few feet away. He looks like a  _man_ , in his dress uniform. A very young man, but a man, nonetheless.  
  
  
“Doctor . . . life is short in space. Sometimes brutally so. This is something I have come to appreciate recently.” Pavel turns and smiles at him, though he has that about-to-cry look again. “I  _love you_. But I vill not vait forever vhile you figure out vhat it is  _you_ vant, and tell yourself you can't be vhatever it is you think  _I_  vant. All this being on pins and needles, it . . . hurt too much, and I am already wery, wery tired of hurting.”  
  
  
“So'm I.” Bones approaches Pavel step by impossible step. Till he's close enough to wipe away tears, so he does. No more replace them, and Pavel leans into his touch for a moment.  
  
  
“I'm sorry, kid. I really, really--”  
  
  
“Please, stop apologizing, Doctor.” Pavel removes Bones's hand, but doesn't let go of it. They stand there, staring at each other, holding hands, neither wanting to be the first to leave.  
  
  
“Lad?”  
  
  
Scotty's voice, coming from the doorway, and Bones ignores it. So does Pavel. His eyes are still wet, but his smile is brave, and sweet, and so damned lovely, and . . . it's too late:  
  
  
Ready or not . . . Leonard McCoy is falling in love.   
  
  
“Pavel, the service is gonna start in a bit. I sent Hikaru ahead, but if we dinna catch up sharpish, he'll worry himself into a fine state.”  
  
  
“Aye, Mr. Scott.” Pavel bites his lip for a moment, then presses a quick kiss to Bones's cheek before letting go of his hand. “Good luck, Doctor.”   
  
  
“Ditto.” Bones tries to clear some of the roughness from his voice, though the frog in his throat feels like it might be his heart. “Though I suppose I'll need it more than you. . . .”  
  
  
But Pavel's already gone. Over to Scotty, who slings a friendly arm around his shoulders and escorts him out, glancing back at Bones sternly. Then the doors slide shut behind them, cutting off the fan of light from corridor, which leads to the memorial service Bones suddenly can't imagine going to.  
  
  
In fact, there's really only one place he  _can_  imagine going. But first thing's first . . . gotta get out of the damn dress uniform and into his functional, comfortable one.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“Hit me again.”  
  
  
Corn-flower blue antenna swing toward him a full minute before that unfathomable gaze lifts from a PADD that's crammed, margin to margin, with the weird, spiky cuneiform that passes for Andorian writing.  
  
  
Whatever Shrijn's reading, it must be engrossing. He's barely put it down since Bones got to the lounge. But now, he looks Bones over critically, and takes his sweet little ol' time walking the tonic over and filling the glass. “That makes four tonic waters in rapid succession, Doctor. Am I to take this as an indictment of my stock?”  
  
  
“Oh . . . take it from me, darlin', there's nothing wrong with your stock.” Bones snorts, turning the refilled glass in his hand just to see it catch the light. He can feel Shrijn's gaze on him, and it's enough to finish what Pavel's touches and voice started. To make his body ache with remembrance and  _want_.  
  
  
Big Blue didn't cure his infatuation, but it damn sure did him right. Fucked the edgy nervousness he's been living with for so long out of him. . . .  
  
  
He smiles--a distinctly  _Jim_ -ish smile, and Shrijn clears his throat and looks away.  
  
  
“Ah,” he says softly, and, “well.”  
  
  
It's the closest to flustered inanity Bones's ever heard from him, and it reminds him of Pavel for a few moments. Fucking blind-sides him before he tamps the thought down under the full weight of his sobriety. Not quite an entire day of it under his belt, and already it feels like ten.  
  
  
“So, then, you've decided to--drive the wagon, as you Humans like to say.”  
  
  
“Driving the wagon . . . yes, I suppose you could say that.” Bones grins, and Shrijn sniffs and drifts off. Attends to another customer--Midshipman Kelso, who'd shown up shortly after Bones had, and in civvies as dark as the cloud around her head--one of only a few patrons on this solemn night. “I think it's time for me to see what life outside the bottle is like for the next little while.”  
  
  
“A wise decision.” Shrijn fills the grim midshipman's glass with kanar, not for the first time and not likely to be the last. Watches her slouch off, with a frown that might be concern, but might not. “Shall I expect to see you in the lounge less? Or not at all?”  
  
  
“Well, now. I don't have a massive store of Rixxian tonic water in my quarters, so I imagine I'll still be something of a fixture. Besides,” Bones draws the word out, pausing until Shrijn looks at him with bright, penetrating eyes. “I find I like the company here at least as much as I like the selection of alcohol.”  
  
  
Shrijn huffs, glances at the doors as if someone new might've walked into the bar in the fifteen seconds since he last looked that way. His antenna are restless, swiveling around like old-timey satellite dishes. “Shouldn't you be at the memorial service?”  
  
  
“I should be, but I don't think it'd do any good for Pa-- . . . for anyone if I put in an appearance.”  
  
  
“I see. Well. The service is being broadcast on the comm system . . . if you like, I could turn it on.”  
  
  
“I'd rather you didn't.” Bones hangs his head, and focuses on the bar. On Shrijn's hand, and his own inching toward it. Wonders if everything he does, anyone he's with--no matter how far down the road--will remind him of Pavel. Can't decide if it'd be good or bad if it did. “Fine speeches and fond remembrances aside, those damned things are ghastly and macabre, and I've been to too many of them in the past year. Been forced to recall in  _detail_  all the ones I couldn't save . . . I don't know that I could handle another round of that, now that I'm driving the wagon.”  
  
  
“Mm.” When Bones's fingers brushes Shrijn's hand, Shrijn allows it briefly, before moving away with just enough reluctance to give Bones a boost of confidence.  
  
  
“Shrijn.” He sips his tonic water and keenly wishes it were whisky. Or even beer. Though drunk or sober he's never had a way with with people who weren't patients. “If you're amenable, I'd like to . . . share your bed again. After your shift, maybe?”  
  
  
“I should think, from the way you hobbled out of my quarters, you'd be disinclined to engage in further sexual activity this evening,” Shrijn says almost primly, though his lips curve (oh, so interestingly, especially since Bones knows, now, exactly how they'll feel on his cock), and his antenna have settled into an intently Bones-ward orientation.  
  
  
“Oh, I'll be feelin' the aftershocks awhile, I don't doubt it. But I can't help thinking about how damned bad I wanna feel--”  _absolutely anything that isn't this. That isn't my heart being gnawed at by starving possums, or the universe falling down around my ears--_ ”that big, blue monster of yours pushing into me again. Till I can taste you in the back of my throat. How bad I wanna be pinned down in your bed, too helpless to do anything but beg and come, till I can't do either anymore. Till all I can do is lie there and take it for however long you choose to give it to me--”  
  
  
“You Humans do enjoy talking one's ear off,” Shrijn says suddenly, and snatches the glass of tonic water, taking a long sip before handing it back. His antenna are going mad, writhing and twitching, all but hiding themselves in Shrijn's hair as he stares at the floor, at the bar--at the bottles gleaming on their shelves, and at Lieutenant Ziegler and Midshipman Kelso leaving hand in drunken hand.  
  
  
Just like that, the lounge is practically empty but for a trio of engineers in a corner arguing animatedly. Their table is covered in napkins, the napkins covered in logarithms and diagrams.  
  
  
“Perhaps you could close up shop early, just this once,” Bones suggests quietly, and Shrijn's eyes narrow, his lips--which would taste like bitter citrus  _and_  licorice, now--purse.  
  
  
“Anything is possible, Doctor.”  
  
  
“Shrijn . . . I need--”  
  
  
“We both know what you really need, and it isn't what I gave you earlier, however much you might crave it,” Shrijn dismisses cooly. “Now. Perhaps  _you_  should retire early. I'm certain your body needs the rest.”  
  
  
He picks up his PADD and moves down to the other end of the bar, pointedly ignoring Bones, who stares disbelievingly, till he realizes staring's not going to get him anywhere. So he empties his glass, and stands up slowly in deference to his myriad aches. “As you like. I'll, uh, be in my office. Comm me if you . . . change your mind.”  
  
  
No reply.  
  
  
 _Alright, then._  
  
  
Bones makes his way to the doors, knowing he's tracked every step of the way by antenna that can't quite manage to stay hidden in cloud-white hair.  
  
  
Knowing also, that once a man makes up his mind a certain way, all the want in the world won't move or change it.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Three a.m., and Bones has checked, rechecked, filed, corrected, and surveyed every piece of busywork he can find.  
  
  
Normally, he leaves the bulk of it to Christine--frankly, she's the only member of his staff he can trust to scratch her own ass without needing point-by-point instruction, and she's as much of a perfectionist-workaholic as he himself is--but he'd promised Jim he'd make up for lost hours, anyway.  
  
  
And now is really the ideal time for it. For once, Sickbay is empty, and the last time Bones'd poked his head out of his office to get a glass of water and some acetaminophen--not nearly as steadying or satisfying as the half bottle of bourbon in his bottom right drawer, but he'd be damned if he'd stop driving the wagon after  _one day_ \--the on-calls, Dr. Phommavongsa and NP O'Fallon, had been playing hearts and talking Risan pin-up girls.  
  
  
Yeoman Scarfe had been playing the latest BattleWerks RPG on her PADD, killing orcs or goblins, or whatever (God forbid she should brush up on Sickbay protocol in her many free moments).  
  
  
But, work done and still thunderingly sober, his mind wanders to Pavel again. . . about what he's doing right now,  _how_  he's doing. If he'll be able to fall asleep alone, or if he'll have to cry his heart out first, like he had last night, shaking and hitching like he'd never be happy again. . . .  
  
  
Only this time, he wouldn't have even the paltry comfort of Bones's arms around him.  
  
  
He has the bottle of bourbon out and is about to pour himself four fingers and a generous thumb before he remembers he's driving the wagon for the next little while.  
  
  
Slamming his drawer hard enough that it rebounds back open, he closes his eyes and braces his head on his hands. Sits like that for God knows how long, slowly taken over by the certainty that if he went to his quarters right now, he'd find the ensign curled up in his bed, wearing his sweater, and a sweet, sleepy smile that Bones'd have to fight not to kiss off. . . .  
  
  
Though fighting  _against_  no longer seems like the galaxy's brightest idea. In fact, it seems . . . downright stupid when he could be fighting just as hard  _for_ , and reaping some damned nice benefits in the process.  
  
  
Like Pavel Chekov in his bed, and smiling at him when he wakes up, first thing. Bringing the kid breakfast-- _healthy_  breakfasts, not the Jim-esque crap Pavel tends to shovel in, and store in what must be a hollow leg--and watching him pretend he likes it. Taking care of him.  
  
  
Even more than saving people, Leonard McCoy needs to take care of them. Needs to be needed, and--  
  
  
No. Even though he associates the word almost exclusively with the green-blooded ice-sculpture currently in command on the Bridge,  _illogical_  is the only word for the way he's thinking. He  _knows_  how it'll end. How it's  _likely_  to end. One, or both of them in tears and ruin. . . .  
  
  
He's up and out of his office before he consciously realizes he means to go. To his quarters, to tell the kid, as kindly as possible, not to bother waiting even for a day. That there can never be anything more than friendship between them for both their sakes.  
  
  
Nothing he hasn't said before, but he feels he has to say it again. To see Pavel, to tell him, and--  
  
  
To  _see_  him.  
  
  
On his way out Sickbay, he snatches Yeoman Scarfe's PADD and drops it down the biohazard chute.  
  
  
Almost whistling, he maps just the way The Conversation will go during the quick journey to his quarters. . . .  
  
  


*

  
  
  
. . . his dark, empty, Pavel-less quarters.  
  
  
Which is a relief, but shouldn't be. They  _need_  to have this Conversation, because the last thing  _Bones_  needs is some damned naive kid waiting hopefully to crawl into his trousers.  
  
  
It's the last thing he needs, and somehow, it's the only thing he  _wants_. And not just the trousers, but the way said kid laughs. His accent, and the scent of his hair--those breakfasts, and long conversations about nothing of any import. . . .  
  
  
It's ridiculous, Bones knows. The kind of romance-novel stuff that, if it ever happens in real life, would never happen for someone like him.  
  
  
And it's because of all that ridiculousness--the  _cessation_  of this ridiculsness--he finds himself standing nervously outside Pavel-- _Ensign Chekov_ 's door, hand hovering at the sensor, waiting for a sleepy  _who is it, please?_  Or maybe for the door to open, and a sleepy, mussed, half-dressed ensign to invite him in with that sweet, wry smile on his lips. . . .  
  
  
No.  
  
  
No, and bad, and wrong.  
  
  
After five minutes of waiting for a response, Bones is forced to consider some possibilities that hadn't honestly occurred to him in Sickbay, or even as he left his quarters.  
  
  
It's entirely  _possible_  that Pavel's not in his quarters. That he's in Sulu's . . . the Helmsman who's not only adept with more edged weapons than everyone on Enterprise combined, but who also isn't too thrilled with Bones at present.  
  
  
Or--and this is a somewhat less likely but somewhat more dismaying possibility--he's in someone  _else_ 's quarters. Getting the grief fucked out of him by an ensign or midshipman with the good sense to take a horny (none-too-picky) Russian up on his fumbling, desperate offer. . . .  
  
  
Because really, who's Bones kidding? Even a damned android like Spock'd have a time of saying no to those baby blues, and that sugar-sweet mouth.  
  
  
Bones stabs at the sensor plate. Then punches it for good measure. The sensor makes a warning sort of beep, the kind that says one more 'request' like that and a security detail will be dispatched. But other than that, there's still no answer.  
  
  
Torn between mounting worry, building rage, and nagging,  _illogical_ , but  _potent_  jealousy, he makes his way to Helmsman Sulu's quarters, no longer smiling, clenching and releasing his aching hand.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Finally, a door opens for him, and behind it is Montgomery Scott, looking half-asleep and all-annoyed, dressed only in periwinkle boxers and a faded orange t-shirt with black kanji symbols.  
  
  
He shakes his head tiredly. “Y'know, there's a grand new invention making the rounds of all the better starships, yeah? 'S called a bloody  _clock_. Ever hear of it, then?”  
  
  
Bones crosses his arms and is obscurely glad his right fist aches too much to be throwing any punches with it. “Where's Pavel?”  
  
  
Scotty makes a scoffing sound, and his pointy, harlequin face screws into what's presumably a scowl. He looks like a constipated marionette. “Pity's  _sake_ , man, havenae y' done enough t' that poor lad for one day?”  
  
  
Bones bites back any of a dozen sharp retorts (more because Scotty's absolutely right, than because Bones has any real urge to be civil), and counts to ten. “He isn't answering his door, and I'm worried. I went to Sulu's quarters, and he isn't answering, either--”  
  
  
“As well he wouldnae, since he happens t' be here. Catching a precious few hours of sleep before his shift.” Scotty steps out into the corridor and lets the door close behind him. Moves closer, till he and Bones are--well, face to adam's apple. “Look, I sympathize wi' ye, Leonard, I do. But Pavel's nae here. The last I saw of him, he was settlin' in his quarters for the nonce. And--after the coupla days he's had, even if he were standin' right beside me, I'd sooner eat m' dirty socks than give ye another shot at breaking what's left of his heart, right? Right. So if Pavel wants t' see ye, I'm fain certain he knows where t' find ye. Until then, kindly piss the feck off--” he pokes Bones in the sternum with one bony finger “--and let the rest of us, Pavel included, grab a decent night's, drama-free kip. Thank you.”  
  
  
In the few seconds it takes Bones to parse that godawful muddle of an accent and stop gaping, Scotty's disappeared back into his quarters muttering, and no amount of hanging on the bell budges him back out.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
He's back on Deck 17, making his way to Pavel's quarters to wait--and seriously considering going to the captain's cabin, pulling Jim off of Christine and  _making_  him hack Enterprise's security systems to locate the missing ensign--when he passes the Observation Gallery.  
  
  
Feeling very much like a man with no better ideas and nothing to lose, he goes inside.  
  
  
The room isn't as empty as it was a few hours ago. There are people in alcoves talking quietly, a few people leaning on the rail or sitting in chairs. Even from the door, and despite the almost nonexistent lighting, he can tell none of them are Pavel.  
  
  
Kicking himself for the Nth time this hour, Bones is about to march back the way he came--back to Sickbay, since he's too keyed up and sober to sleep--and cut his losses. Chalk it all up to roads not taken, when . . . he hears it. Soft, sad singing in Russian . . . something lugubrious, down-tempo, and just plain depressing.   
  
  
Heart standing still and beating too fast simultaneously, Bones looks along the wall to the left of the doors. Sticking out of the alcove he and Pavel had shared earlier, is a pair of familiar, ugly orange sneakers, and long legs clad in tight, red-tartan jeans. Next to the legs, is a mostly empty bottle of Kentucky Courage (Bones knows just where it came from, too).  
  
  
Balanced on one tartan-clad thigh is a mostly full tumbler.  
  
  
Closer inspection reveals that yes, not only does the kid have the absolute  _worst_  taste in clothing Bones has ever seen, but he's topped it off with Bones's Graceland t-shirt--the one Mary Jo gave him . . . nearly twenty years ago. He's still singing quietly to himself and doesn't even notice Bones until he hunkers down and tries to take the glass.   
  
  
The kid clutches the glass tighter, and bleary blue eyes attempt to focus. It takes them a few moments, but when he gets there, he frowns. Reaches out with his free hand and touches Bones face suspiciously. His fingers are warm and dry, his touch is . . . electrifying.  
  
  
"You are real?"  
  
  
Bones smiles limply, and the kid's hand cups his face tentatively, as if he's afraid it'll be smacked away. "Last I checked, yes. Pavel--"  
  
  
The kid surges forward, flinging his arms around Bones--who nearly falls on his ass under the onslaught of a hard, hungry kiss. Whisky sloshes down the back of his shirt and he tries . . . sort of . . . to pull away. "Look, kid--"  
  
  
"I. Am  _not_. A  _kid_ ," Pavel growls, and kisses him again. Kisses him and kisses him till a brief fit of hiccups separates them. Then Pavel  _giggles_  and sits back in the alcove, licking his lips like the cat that got the cream. "Okay,  _now_  I am done. Go 'vay."  
  
  
Flustered and turned on, Bones has to take a moment . . . then several more to remember what the hell he was going to say (his plans for The Conversation didn't include a drunk!Pavel or that  _kiss_ ). Hell, he's not even sure why he went to all the trouble of finding the kid, when he could've waited till morning, or afternoon . . . or next Tuesday.  
  
  
 _For that kiss_  doesn't seem like the kind of answer he should accept from himself, no matter how lust-addled his brain.  
  
  
"I've, uh . . . I've been looking for you for the past hour, running my ass all over this damn ship. What the hell're you doing  _here_ \--with  _my_  whisky, no less--and why?"  
  
  
The kid flops one floppy, uncoordinated hand at him and makes leans back against the wall, his eyes glittering. "You do not really care. Go be vith Mr. Shrijn."  
  
  
Bones winces, and moves the bottle out of drinking or wielding reach. Judging from what the kid had, he should be tipsy, but not _drunk_. Not with  _his_  tolerance, and penchant for drinking Bones under the table. "Tried that. He wouldn't have me. When was the last time you ate?"  
  
  
"Vhen you brought me lunch--oh, no, vait a meenute . . . that newer happened." Pavel closes his eyes and tears get caught in his lashes before rolling down his face. "You are a beeeeeeg jerk."  
  
  
A solid day and a half without eating, and a pint of whisky on top of that . . . fandamntastic. "Look, Ensign--"  
  
  
Huge, hopeful blue eyes open and focus on him. "Call me 'Pasha'?"  
  
  
"Uh. Pasha--?"  
  
  
 _Now_ , the kid moans and turns his face to the alcove wall. "Ai, do not call me Pasha if you do not  _mean it_!" He sniffles and hitches, and . . . shit, he's actually  _crying_.  
  
  
 _What the hell is a_ pasha? Bones wonders, then shrugs. Crowds in next to Pavel and pulls him close.  
  
  
He may be a big jerk--ain't no  _maybe_  about it, as his Grand-Mama might've said--but the kid comes readily enough, hiding his face in Bones's shirt.  
  
  
"Vhy you do not vant to be vith me?" he asks in a small, lost voice, one hand bunched in Bones's shirt like it's a blankie. The other's clenched around the glass of whisky. But this time, when Bones tries to pry it out of his fingers, he lets go immediately.  
  
  
"I . . . want to, Pavel. Me not wanting you isn't the problem--"  
  
  
"I do not believe you."  
  
  
"Doesn't make it any less true." Bones clears his throat and tries to sound gruff. Not an easy thing to do with the kid's hair tickling his face. With the kid's hand sliding under his shirt to rest on bare skin. With the soft puffs of breath on his collarbone sending shivers racing up and down Bones's spine.  
  
  
 _Fuck,_  he thinks desperately, and closes his eyes. He rests his head against Pavel's, and they sit quietly that way. The kid runs his hand up and down Bones's chest like he's a giant cat, whispering in Russian and English. It sounds like it might be poetry.  
  
  
 _Jesus._  “Pavel. What do you want from me?"  
  
  
"You already know vhat I vant, Doctor. I vant you to love me, and to be vith me, and to let me make you happy. And for you to have sex vith me often."   
  
  
Bones rolls his eyes. "Well. At least you don't want much."  
  
  
The kid sighs, loud and drawn out. "Only you. You are everything. I vant only you."  
  
  
" _Why_?" And damnit, he can see Jim's smug smirk, as if the little bastard were standing right in front of them. "There're twenty guys on this ship that'll treat you a hundred times better than I would. Guys that'd be  _better_  for you than me!”  
  
  
"But  _you_  are the vone that I love. I do not vant tventy guys that are  _better than_  you, I vant  _you_. No matter how many times you tell me I should not, or that you cannot be vith me, it vill not change how I feel." Pavel laughs a little, and makes a desperate lunge for the bottle--and actually gets it, damn his long arms. He hugs it to him like it's a fussy newborn. "Do you tink I have not tried to stop being in love vith you? Is like trying not to breathe. I start to suffocate soon-soon-soon. Ewentually, I vill die. . . ."  
  
  
“Uh-huh . . . I really think you've had enough of Dr. McCoy's secret stash for tonight, kiddo.” Bones makes a grab for the bottle, but the kid only holds it closer, tucking his knees up to his chest to block, whining  _nyet_ s and calling Bones the  _beeeegest jerk ewer_.  
  
  
Glancing around to make sure no one's paying attention to them--and no one is, but in the ostentatious way of people who really _are_  paying very close attention, and know when to look away.  
  
  
Bones doesn't need a reputation for stealing whisky from poor, defenseless Russians, on top of everything else.  
  
  
"Pavel.  _Pasha_ ," he grits out, a fake, shit-eating grin on his face as he slings a casual arm around the kid, who really hunches up around the bottle. He'd have been hell on wheels as part of a varsity defensive line. "Gimme the damn bottle."  
  
  
"Vhat part of  _nyet_  do you not understand, Doctor!"  
  
  
"The part that's in Russian!" Bones tries to worm his hand past the kid's long arms and knobby knees.  
  
  
"You can have this vhisky if you give me a kiss," Pavel says petulantly. Then giggles when Bones jabs at a sensitive spot. “Stop! Teekling is not fair!”  
  
  
They're being openly stared at, now. Snickered at, even. It's intolerable. Bones goes for blood: thinly-padded ribs, whatever bits of mid-section he can reach--an armpit. The kid can't defend everywhere at once, and sooner or later, he'll let go of that bottle. “ _All_ 's fair in love and war, sweetheart. So,  _gimme_.”  
  
  
Now, Bones gets the big eyes  _and_  the pouty lower lip, all trembly and . . . and. . . .  
  
  
“Goddamnit.”  
  
  
“First you do not vant me, now ve are at  _var_?” The last word is a squeak, and there are more tears right behind it. Pavel looks down at the bottle, then holds it out solemnly, even though Bones's already moved his hands away. “I do not vant to be at var vith you. I am sorry, Doctor.”  
  
  
"Ah, Christ--I can't talk to you when you're like this." Bones pushes the proffered bottle back toward the kid, and crawls out of the alcove. He crouches--not exactly the funnest thing to do after the pummeling his body's taken today--and holds out his hand, which the kid stares at blankly, then gazes up at Bones with wide-eyed confusion. "C'mon, get up."  
  
  
Pavel puts down the bottle, and takes his hand, but resists when Bones tries to tug him to his feet. "Vhy? Vhere ve go?"  
  
  
"Sickbay. To sober you up."  
  
  
"Nyet!  _No_!" Pavel grabs the heretofore forgotten glass and knocks it back before Bones can stop him, whisky sliding down his chin. He frowns, and wipes his chin on his arm, and pats his chest gingerly, like it hurts. "I do not vant to be sober uped. Vhen I am sober uped, I hurt ewen more. First Trinh, then you . . . I newer vant to be sober uped again."  
  
  
He looks so lost and fragile, Bones feels like the jam lodged between pond scum's toes for not giving him everything he wants.  
  
  
Grumbling to himself about Russians who can't hold their whisky, he gets one arms under the kid's legs, the other around his waist, and stands up with him--carefully. The boy's skinny, but he's  _heavy._  "Alright. Upsa-daisy, Pasha-baby . . . Christ, you smell like a 'still."  
  
  
Pavel blinks at him dazedly, then hides his face against Bones's neck. "I do not. And do not call me Pasha."  
  
  
"I'll call you whatever I goddamn well please." Ignoring the gawkers, Bones strides toward the door, head held high. Some wise-ass behind them gets the idea to start applauding, like they've just seen particularly gripping theater, and half the others take it up, too. Bones grits his teeth again, amazed he has teeth left  _to_  grit. “You don't even know what a 'still is."  
  
  
The doors slide open, and the applause follows them out. "Do, too."  
  
  
"Enlighten me."  
  
  
There's distinctly wicked giggle in his ear . . . followed by Pavel's tongue. Bones stops dead in his tracks, and suddenly how much the kid weighs is irrelevant.  
  
  
"That's . . . that's not what I meant by 'enlighten', Pavel."  
  
  
"You are right, Doctor. I do not know vhat a  _'still_  is,” he breathes in Bones's ear with another hiccup. “But I know vhat  _fucking_  is. And I vant you to  _fuck me_."  
  
  
"Jesus . . . are you gonna cry again if I say no?"  
  
  
All of a sudden, the formerly docile and affectionate ensign is struggling in his arms, muttering  _put me down_  in English and Russian. It's a fight--Bones staggers to the wall for support, dodging flailing arms and clamping his own around a narrow back and long thighs--but holds on, his temper flaring.  
  
  
"Stop, goddamnit, or I  _will_  let you go--I'll drop you right on your bony ass in the middle of this corridor!"  
  
  
"Good! Drop me!" Pavel tries to heave himself out of Bones's arms, and manages nothing more nearly than toppling them both to the ground. "I do not care and I do not vant your conder--condens--"  
  
  
"Condescension." Bones prays he isn't like this when  _he_ 's drunk.  
  
  
"Da! Tank you, Doctor--I mean  _no, tank you_ , Doctor! I do not vant condensation, or patro . . . someting. I am not a child." That firmly established, he settles in Bones's arms with a huff, his previous request to be set down utterly forgotten. Bones rolls his eyes and starts walking again. "I am a man. A man who loves you."  
  
  
And what's there to say to that? Nothing that won't either break the kid's heart, or give him false hopes. . . .  
  
  
 _Because the hopes_ would _be false,_  Bones thinks, remembering The Conversation they need to have.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
About ten minutes later they finally,  _finally_  get to Sickbay.  
  
  
Bones half drags, half holds up a once-more-affectionate,  _grabby_  Pavel--halfway to the elevator the kid'd insisted he could walk without help, and he was right about the walking part, anyway--into the reception area.  
  
  
From their sadly customary stations of huddled-over-Scarfe's-PADD (how the hell she got it back at all, let alone so fast is beyond him) the on-calls look up. And keep looking. Though goggling might be a better term.  
  
  
“You are soooooo muscoolar, and sexy, Leonard,” Pavel breathes loudly into his ear--into the pin-drop silence--then laughs, throatily. “I like to stare at your butt vhen you valk avay from me . . . but I vish you vould not valk away from me so much. . . .”  
  
  
He sighs, and leans heavily against Bones, who grimly eyes his three brain-dead underlings, silently daring them to say something.  
  
  
Anything at all.  
  
  
In the first display of real intelligence he's seen in ten months, they say nothing . . . but they keep goggling.  
  
  
Bones catches the ensign's hand before it can finish undoing his fly, and Pavel laughs again, whispering something in Russian that doesn't sound workplace-appropriate. "I'm sorry, do you three not have enough work to do? If that's the case, I'm sure I could find something along the lines of laser-scrubbing the entire Sickbay by hand, for example--"  
  
  
He's never seen three people disappear so fast.  
  
  
There's blessed silence and emptiness left in their wake, and Bones looks at the kid. The kid looks at him--smiles so sweetly, it feels as if Bones's heart is being wrung out like a wet towel when he remembers The Conversation they need to have.  
  
  
And they  _do_  need to have it.  
  
  
 _But maybe. . . ._  he thinks, returning the smile, and pulling Pavel into his arms.  _Maybe Jim was right. It wouldn't be easy--but since when do I like easy? Hell, I fought tooth and nail to keep the Ex-Wife, and . . . this kid is worth fifty of Ethan. So if I can fight battles that aren't worth winning, maybe. . . .  
  
  
Maybe I should try fighting for . . . whatever this thing between us is. Maybe I could _win--  
  
  
“Doctor?” The kid breathes, eyes huge and dilated, a nearly visible cloud of alcohol surrounding him. Bones tries on a smile of his own. It feels . . . good. Not least-ways because of the way Pavel brightens, shines, leans toward him like a flower toward the sun, his eyes slipping shut on a contented sigh.  
  
  
“What, kid?”  
  
  
“Can ve please have sex on your desk, now?”  
  
  
“Uh--” The only thing more alarming than the serious consideration he's giving such a request, is the fact that he still hasn't decided on an answer when, seconds later, Pavel sags in his arms like a boozy load of laundry.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
At 07:00 hours precisely, Head Nurse Christine Chapel gets the surprise of her life when she halves the opacity on the privacy screen around the last bed in Sickbay:  
  
  
Dr. McCoy, fast asleep in bed with poor Ensign Chekov, who's curled up on the Doctor's chest and snoring a little.  
  
  
They both look exhausted, but . . . peaceful. More than she's  _ever_  seen, in Dr. McCoy's case.  
  
  
 _It looks like the rumors were at least partially true,_  she thinks, noting with relief that, whatever the nature of their personal relationship, both men are still completely dressed while  _here_. Not that she'd expect anything less of the Doctor. Temperament aside, he's never displayed less than professional, or gentlemanly behavior. Underneath the moodiness and abrupt manner, he's quite gallant and circumspect.  
  
  
Unlike the Captain, who, for all that he can be unexpectedly sweet, can also be incredibly, often unintentionally boorish.  
  
  
But if there's one thing Christine Chapel is, it's a professional. Her "relationship", (or lack thereof) with Jim Kirk, is a worry for after shift. For now, it's duty first, second, third. . . .  
  
  
Her mind already on the tasks of the day sets the screen opacity back to eighty percent and goes about her routines.  
  



	11. Category Eight: Bones and Shrijn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Summary: Basically, you take the major fanfic categories (these seem to vary, so I went with the ones most commonly used in the other fandom) and write something for each using ten words or less.

**Humor:**  
  
"So . . . Bolian, right?"   
  
The tipsy Human grins crookedly.  
  
Shrijn glares.  
  
  
 **Fluff:**  
  
“It's piss-water.”  
  
“It's [Laphroaig](http://www.laphroaig.com/)!”  
  
“Here.”  
  
“What's--”  
  
Shrijn smirks. “Andorian. Brandy.”  
  
  
 **UST:**  
  
In annoyance--in passion or passing, the Doctor's  _mouth_  is. . . .  
  
  
 **Adventure:**  
  
McCoy's an exotic, alien landscape.  
  
Shrijn's eager to go exploring.  
  
  
 **Smut:**  
  
Tight.  
  
Hot.  
  
Hoarsely, profanely,  _profusely_  appreciative of Shrijn's efforts.  
  
 _Glorious_.  
  
  
 **Hurt/Comfort:**    
  
“I've . . . hurt you?”  
  
“-- _Christ . . ._  I could stand some more hurt--”  
  
  
 **Angst:**  
  
 _"Stay with me,"_  Shrijn murmurs.   _"Please."_  
  
McCoy doesn't speak Andorii.  
  
  
 **Friendship:**  
  
“I'm seeing Pavel.”  
  
“Congratulations.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Of course,” Shrijn lies smoothly.


	12. The Overhang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pavel enjoys the wages of a massive drinking binge, and—debilitating pain aside—it's a pretty decent wage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Follow up to Fortune's Wager. Set a few hours later, in fact.

He knows he's in pain before he even knows he's awake. And he knows he's awake when he groans, mid-attempt to raise eyelids that weigh ten thousand kilos apiece. But it feels as if they're also glued shut--though the pained tears welling up behind his closed lids are more than enough to unstick his lashes.  
  
  
It does nothing, however, for his weighty eyelids, which feel distinctly gritty when he rubs them with hands that must weigh upwards of twenty tons.  
  
  
Surely there must be a localized increase in Enterprise's gravity . . . it would explain the eyelids, and the incredible, heavy, throbbing pressure on his poor brain. And hopefully, Keptin Kork will remedy the issue shortly. If not him, then certainly Commander Spo--  
  
  
“Well, well. It lives.”  
  
  
At that voice-- _that_  voice, in Pavel's room? Impossible--he not only manages to open his eyes to the most blindingly intense light in the galaxy, if not the universe, but he manages to bolt upright into a sitting position. Immediately after which something, possibly an ax, cleaves his skull in two.  
  
  
“ _Chyort voz'mi!_ ” he moans, dropping back to his bed--though it isn't. His. It's the same firmness, yes, but no sheets, and a more acute incline to the frame than he's normally comfortable with. " _Kakogo chyorta_!”  
  
  
“I dunno what you just said, but I'm guessin' it wasn't  _top of the mornin', Dr. McCoy, how're you this fine Thursday?_ ” the Doctor drawls, sounding a little less gruff than usual, and possibly amused--Pavel's in too much pain to really pick up on such nuances. It's a miracle he can still understand English at all.  
  
  
Though how his brain is translating while he's in such crippling pain is truly unfathomable. A scientific wonder.  
  
  
“Vhat. Happened?” he asks, possibly in English this time. The asking makes everything, including his toenails, hurt worse. His mouth tastes like unreclamated waste, and his tongue feels like a swatch of dirty, old carpet.  
  
  
“You got drunk and acted like an ass is what happened. A little somethin' I like to call the  _Jim Kirk Saturday Night Special_."  
  
  
Pavel lets that sink in . . . the sinking takes awhile, since he can't remember anything much after the Observation Gallery. He'd already been drunk when he staggered out of the Doctor's quarters, his own maroon-and-orange Henley shirt discarded and left behind as particularly damning evidence, the rest of a bottle of the Doctor's whisky tucked under his arm.  
  
  
He remembers thinking, as he meandered down the corridor--thankfully encountering no one he knew--that he was back home, for a few moments. That it was winter, and he was wandering around in one of the Ice Palaces that were so in style for a brief time. (His parents had dragged him to several when he was much younger, in an attempt to foster in him an appreciation for art to match his appreciation for math. It hadn't really worked that well, though his appreciation for the physical applications of the mathematics he so loved had tripled. He'd even flirted with changing his focus to engineering, once in Starfleet.)  
  
  
Then he'd remembered his second Winter Break at the Academy. He'd brought Trinh home with him to Novosibirsk for a few days. She'd hated the cold, but loved the Ice Palaces. Loved the Chekovs, and borscht, and snowballs fights with Pavel's annoying, precocious younger cousins. Had played chess with Pavel's father, and gone shopping in Petrograd with Pavel's mother.  
  
  
When she'd gotten on the Shuttle to Japan, and thence to Thailand, she'd taken the family's hearts with her--especially his mother's and a deeply smitten cousin Aleksander's. Pavel himself had been half-way in love, and told himself that if he could ever find a boy with Trinh's combination of boldness and sweetness, brains and brawn, humor and sincerity . . . he'd not rest till he made such a boy his own.  
  
  
 _Only, I didn't find a boy like_ you _, did I?_  he'd thought morosely, making his overly careful way down the corridor. He'd wondered what Trinh would think of the Doctor now. She it was who first brought it to Pavel's attention that the new CMO was young and attractive, with penetrating dark eyes, and  _shoulders_. She it was who'd first put the silly notion in Pavel's head that he actually might have a chance at getting said CMO.  _I found a boy as different from you as could be, and I_ love _him so much it feels like my heart is breaking every time I see him. He doesn't love me back, and he may be in love with someone else, and all I want is for him to hold me and love me and oh, Trinh, why aren't you_ here _? I miss you so much, it feels like I can't breathe. . . ._  
  
  
Once in the Observation Gallery, he'd ignored the other crew members relaxing and enjoying the view, and sought out the little niche that the Doctor had dragged him to earlier. Where they'd kissed, pressed against each other so close that Pavel thought _surely_ , surely  _now_ , the Doctor would stop pretending he didn't feel what Pavel felt. . . .  
  
  
Only . . . there was no pretending to stop, was there? Pavel knows that, when it comes to sexual matters, he's no expert, but he knows that even the most artless fumbling would provoke a response if there was at least  _some_  physical attraction.  
  
  
The Doctor  _had_  returned Pavel's kisses, in a very restrained, tentative way, but hadn't responded at all to Pavel's hand on him. Not so much as a twitch or a flutter--but rather pained sounding groans and little flinches away.  
  
  
  
The realization that the Doctor was unmoved, maybe even repulsed by his touch was the second most awful thing he's ever felt, and right on the heels of the first. Pavel truly understood the term "heartbreak" for the first time, because it felt like some awful vise was pressing against his chest, pulping muscle and pulverizing bone to destroy a heart that somehow kept beating, even though for a brief while, he'd wished it hadn't. . . .  
  
  
  
So, he drank. Kentucky Courage, the Doctor had called it, yet Pavel had felt anything but as he got steadily drunker, and more maudlin. Head lolling on the wall, eyes closed to keep tears from falling, he started to sing and old song that finally made sense to him:  
  
  
  
 ***** Otshi tshornýe, otshi strastnýe,   
otshi zhgutshiye i prekrasnýe--   
kak lublyu ya vas, kak bayus ya vas!   
Znat', uvidel vas ya v nyedobrý tshas. . . .  
  
  
  
And as he sang, all he could see was the Doctor's beautiful, intelligent dark eyes, always annoyed, but sometimes amused. Sometimes fond. Sometimes  _warm_ , and  _sometimes_ \--so Pavel had thought--desirous of him.  
  
  
  
But he'd thought wrong, apparently. Taken puzzle pieces and connected them incorrectly. Drew the wrong conclusions.  
  
  
  
The Doctor was in love with--or at least sexually attracted to--Mr. Shrijn.  
  
  
  
Not something to be taken lightly, even though Chekovs don't take losing laying down. If the Doctor's  _type_  was mysterious, blue-skinned men with bodies that'd make any athlete gnash their teeth with envy--  
  
  
  
Okh, nyedarom vý glubiný tyemney!   
Vizhu traur v vas po dushe mayey,   
vizhu plamya v vas ya pabyednoye:   
Sozhenu na nyom sertse byednoye.   
  
  
  
\--well, Pavel stands no chance whatsoever. He's 168 pounds soaking wet--about as mysterious as lead. And he's  _never_  been blue, even on the coldest day in Novosibirsk.  
  
  
  
  
 _I will never be what he wants,_  Pavel had told himself harshly, swigging more of the Doctor's whisky, even though he didn't care much for the taste, used as he is to the clean, clear burn of good Russian vodka.  
  
  
  
No nye grusten ya, nye petshalen ya,   
uteshitelna mnye sud'ba maya:   
Fsyo shto lutshevo v zhizni bog dal nam   
v zhertvu otdal ya ognevým glazam!   
  
  
  
But suddenly, the Doctor was  _there_ , looking concerned and not at all annoyed. . . .  
  
  
After that . . . everything gets a bit confused; garbled bits that seem more like dream fragments than memories. An odd and discomfiting occurrence for a person whose earliest cogent memories include learning how to talk and walk.  
  
  
Pavel Chekov never forgets  _anything_. Except that he obviously has.  
  
  
“I am . . . overhung?” he asks the Doctor, thinking it's a stupid question even as he asks it. What else could possibly cause such pain and dehydration immediately after consuming rotgut American alcohol?  
  
  
Another snort. “Welllll . . . I wouldn't know 'bout  _that_ , but you're definitely hungover. Be grateful you're  _only_  that--if you'd passed out alone, you'da woke up dead.”  
  
  
Which makes no sense to Pavel's stewed brain. He can't tell if it's his English isn't up to the task, or simply the Doctor's . . . rather colorful colloquialisms are a bit  _too_  colorful. He starts to open his eyes again automatically and hisses when spears of light stab him in both eyes.  
  
  
“Ai, I vish I  _vas_  dead!”  
  
  
“No, you don't--cubicle 12, maximum opacity, lights at, hmm, twenty-five percent--that's mostly the, uh, overhang talkin'. A hot shower, and some Tarkalean tea in you--I know you'd prefer a Vulcan mocha, but the last thing your system needs right now is goddamn  _coffee_ \--I expect the world'll seem a bit kinder to you. It's safe to open your eyes now. But take it slow.”  
  
  
“Understood, sir.” But Pavel's not remotely interested in risking it, just yet. He squinches his eyes shut even tighter, though it makes his eyeballs throb worse. “I am . . . in Sickbay?”  
  
  
“'ffirmative, Ensign.”  
  
  
Which presents another mystery: “How did I get here?”  
  
  
“Mostly under your own power.” A pause. “I carried you 'bout a third of the way.”  
  
  
 _Carried around the ship of my dreams by the man of my dreams . . . and I have no memory of it. The Chekov Luck holds steady._  “Vas I unconscious?”  
  
  
"At first? No. More like obnoxious.”  
  
  
"I do not suppose I vas . . .  _discreetly_  obnoxious?”  
  
  
The Doctor snorts. “Well, let's see, now. You broke into my room. Stole my shirt, stole my hooch. Got drunk in the Observation Gallery. Stuck your tongue down my throat twice--don't gimme that surprised face, Ensign--refused to stop drinkin' and come with me to Sickbay so I could treat your alcohol poisoning, so I had to carry you here. Where you promptly informed all an' sundry which parts of my anatomy you were partial to, then tried to put your hand down my trousers--ensuring that there'll be a veritable flood of gossip about us. Then you asked me if we were gonna have sex on my desk. Before finally, thankfully, losing consciousness.”  
  
  
“Oh, God,” Pavel groans, dragging one two-ton arm up and draping it across eyes he wasn't planning on opening, anyway. He wishes he had the comfort of thinking his . . . obnoxiousness was being exaggerated. But Pavel's had enough wet dreams regarding the Doctor's and the Doctor's desk that left him limp and dehydrated in the morning to know the Doctor isn't exaggerating or lying. Mortifying. "Please kill me. All I ask is that you make it qvick. "  
  
  
“Ah, don't take it so hard. You'll laugh, when you're older. Hell, kid,  _I'm_  older and I'm laughin'. On the inside, mind.” The Doctor sounds practically jovial . . . for the Doctor, anyway. Still a bit growling and impatient, though. “So. I had to treat you--basically break down the alcohol in your system before your liver threw up its hands and said  _sayonara_. Your system's been rode hard the past couple of days, and you've been out for awhile."  
  
  
"How . . . how long is avhile?"  
  
  
"Thirteen hours and forty some-odd minutes."  
  
  
 _Double shit._  “My shift--"  
  
  
"--is covered, though Commander Starch-Drawers was none too pleased with your absence. Luckily, the Captain's in your corner. And so'm I, for what little  _that_ 's worth . . . you don't have to resume your duties for another eleven hours."  
  
  
Despite the fact that he'll have to endure The Eyebrow from Commander Spock, and possibly ribbing from everyone else about his embarrassing public drunkenness (including and especially the Keptin, who is worse than Pavel's younger cousin Oleg when it comes to such things) Pavel's relieved. " _Spasiba_. Tank you, Doctor."  
  
  
"Well. Don't mention it. Anyway, I know you're in considerable discomfort. I can take care of that, now that you're awake."  
  
  
“Respectfully . . . you could not do that  _before_  I avoke?”  
  
  
“Of course I  _coulda_.” The Doctor snorts, and one of his hands settles on Pavel's right shoulder reassuringly. “But where's the fun in that? Besides, you're learning a valuable object lesson about your limits, right now.”  
  
  
“I am?”  
  
  
“If you're as smart as I've heard, yes. Now, you're gonna feel a cold pinch on the left side of your neck. That'll be the hypo. Ready in three?”  
  
  
 _No. I hate hypos._  “Em . . . yes, Doctor.”  
  
  
“Two--”  
  
  
“ _Ow!_ ”  
  
  
“Atta boy.” A pat on his shoulder, then the hand is gone, and a cool, soothing feeling seems to spread from his neck to his head, and the rest of him, relaxing tense muscles and silencing the all-drum band playing  _Tum Balalaika_  inside his skull.   
  
  
“Oh,” he sighs, long and gratefully. The Doctor's fingers touch his wrist. Take his pulse, but linger a bit longer than necessary. Even now, Pavel's heart-rate starts to sprint just from this brief contact.  
  
  
“You're gonna wanna lay down for awhile, till after that takes effect. Then I expect you'll wanna find a bathroom and breakfast. In that order.”  
  
  
Pavel tries on a smile. It doesn't feel very happy, but it doesn't make his face hurt either. “Aye, sir.”  
  
  
There's silence for a few seconds--not exactly awkward--then a sigh as the left side of the bio-bed dips.  
  
  
Surprised, Pavel risks opening his eyes, now.  
  
  
The cubicle is dim, though light from the rest of the Sickbay leaks in around the privacy shield. More than enough light to make out the Doctor sitting next to him, hands braced on his knees, head hanging just a bit. He looks like a man contemplating a daunting task.  
  
  
“Ensign, uh . . . do you remember anything about last night?”  
  
  
Now there's a loaded question. “I . . . remember after the memorial serwice, going back to my qvarters. Hikaru and Mr. Scott offered to stay until I fell asleep, but I said no, I just . . . vanted to be alone.” Pavel sighs. “Then I could not sleep. Perhaps that vas the reason breaking into your qvarters again seemed like a good idea. And stealing your vhisky. And your t-shirt. Not that I vent there expressly to do that. I just . . . I vanted to see you. I knew I vould not sleep until I did. Vhile I vas vaiting for you to come back, I--”  
  
  
“Snooped around and found my whisky?” But Pavel can tell the Doctor is smiling a little.  
  
  
“Vell. Yes. I--I vas not going to drink it, but then I realized how late it vas getting, and that you might not come back before morning. That you vere probably in  _his_  qvarters, and--”  
  
  
“Jesus,” the Doctor sighs, head hanging a bit more. His shoulders look tense and stiff, and Pavel longs to sit up and put his arms around them. To kiss the Doctor's face and hold him. “I wasn't. Why didn't you hack the security system again and get my twenty?”  
  
  
“I . . . suspected you vere vith him, but I did not vant to know for certain. It vas less painful simply to get drunk,” Pavel admits, turning his face away. His head doesn't feel quite so much like it's about to fall off again, but it doesn't entirely approve of the motion.  
  
  
A large, warm hand covers his own. “I was here. Catching up on work. At least I was, and then I went looking for you.”  
  
  
Relief washes over him, taking half his hangover away. But he suppresses it. It's pure foolishness. The Doctor may not have been with Mr. Shrijn last night, but what about tonight? And tomorrow? Feeling relief in this instance is worse than illogical, it's crazy. Not to mention setting himself up for future heart-break and disappointment. “Vhy vould you look for me, sir?”  
  
  
Another sigh. “Can you tell me what else you remember? About when I found you last night?”  
  
  
Pavel closes his eyes. Can see the Doctor, a bit blurry around the edges, kneeling in front of him. Holding out his hand, looking worried and annoyed. He remembers . . . the Doctor's mouth on his own, soft, unhurried, tasting of citrus and something medicinal. "A little. I remember you vere there, but not much else. I do remember that I . . . kissed you.”  
  
  
The hand squeezes his own, the way any worried doctor's might. “Among other things, yes. And before you start apologizin', it's okay. I wasn't . . . displeased.”  
  
  
Pavel tries to remember  _that_ \--not the kiss, but this alleged lack of displeasure. Can't, and is sorry for it.  
  
  
But a few kisses don't mean anything to anyone, unless they've never had more than that. To an experienced, worldly man like the Doctor, who must have had many lovers, a few kisses--that are merely  _not displeasing_ \--tendered by a young man to whom he's not attracted probably mean . . . less than nothing.   
  
  
“I  _should_  apologize, sir, and I do. As you have pointed out, you are my superior officer. I have behaved inappropriately to you in so many vays--presuming a personal relationship that cannot, and vill newer exist betveen us. Tank you for so sviftly and thoroughly disabusing me of that notion.” Another one of those illogical, silly, crazy feelings sweeps over him: despair, the sort that no amount of hypos can cure. All he wants is to curl up in his own bed and sleep until his heart stops tearing itself to itty-bitty pieces.  
  
  
He opens his eyes and levers himself onto his elbows. Though the world slips a little, it doesn't slide. Mostly holds still for him. So he sits up all the way--or tries to. He doesn't get very far before the Doctor's big hand splays on his chest, stopping him.  
  
  
When Pavel meets the Doctor's dark eyes, he's surprised to see uncertainty there, and the closest he's ever seen to vulnerability on that handsome, discontented face.  
  
  
Or maybe it's just that the Doctor looks so  _tired_. . . .  
  
  
His own despair and heartache aside, Pavel feels a welling of sympathy--of  _empathy_  for this man whose job it is to keep eight hundred some-odd people alive and healthy for long enough to get killed in service to the Federation, if not to return home. Dr. McCoy is fighting the inevitable every day and slowly losing.  _Destined_  to lose, ultimately. This is something that he must know, that he must wrestle with every day, with every patient. . . .  
  
  
And on top of that, he has to fight off the sexual advances and apparent suicide attempt of an ensign he tolerates, but barely knows. Is moderately fond of, but not attracted to.  
  
  
Pavel reaches out and touches the Doctor's wan face--surprises him into speechlessness.  
  
  
"I am sorry, sir," he says, and means it. Is sorry for nearly killing himself on the Doctor's watch when the man certainly has more than enough woes and guilt on his plate. Sorry for dumping his own messy, silly, surely juvenile hopes in the lap of someone who's been married twice, divorced twice, and has seen the dark side of love, not just felt the unrequited pangs of it.  
  
  
“ _Christ_ ,” the Doctor breathes, lowering his eyes and laughing shakily. He catches Pavel's hand and holds it to his cheek for a moment. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”  
  
  
“Drive you absolutely crazy?" Pavel smiles a little, and with one last, dull thud, the headache subsides. Whatever was in that hypo, Pavel suddenly hates them a  _lot_  less. Hates many things a lot less when the Doctor is holding his hand. “I do not mean to, Doctor. I have no vish to be . . . difficult, sir.”  
  
  
The Doctor smiles a little, and stares at Pavel's hand in his own. Strokes his fingers in a way that's distracting, to say the least. “You drive me crazy, alright. In every sense of the term. And when you look at me like that then call me  _sir_  . . . my brain takes all sorts of mental vacations it shouldn't.”  
  
  
Pavel shakes his head--more at the strange hitch in the Doctor's voice than because he has any idea what the Doctor's talking about. “I do not understand.”  
  
  
“I know, Ensign. Pavel. I'm trying to explain--to say this in just the right way . . . believe me, this isn't the conversation I planned on having, or when I planned on having it. So help me, I think I'm glad it's not. That Jim was actually  _right_  about this, damn him.”  
  
  
The Doctor's hand slides back up Pavel's arm, warm and heavy on his skin and through the thin t-shirt. Rests briefly on Pavel's shoulder when he shivers. Then it's sliding to the back of his neck and pulling him closer slowly--if he wanted to resist, he could. But he doesn't. Instead, one arm curls around the Doctor's back, clutching the back of his shirt desperately. The other hand lands on the Doctor's solid chest like a wary bird and they're  _kissing_ , like two people who haven't seen each other in years. He can feel the strong, accelerated  _thud-THUD-thud_  of the heart within. The way it picks up even more as he parts his lips and the Doctor's tongue strokes inside.  
  
  
The Doctor groans, low and long. Not the groan of a man who's forcing himself to kiss someone he isn't attracted to, though Pavel has a rather small frame of reference. But even if he had no frame of reference at all, the way the Doctor pulls him closer, kisses him harder, but cups his face so gently even as the kisses become gentler. Wend their way from lips, to cheek, to jaw, to neck. . . .  
  
  
 _But this can't be, can it? He doesn't want_ me _like this. He wants Mr. Shrijn. He wants--_  
  
  
Pavel will never be sure later if he was trying to prove himself right, or prove himself wrong by dropping his hand to the Doctor's lap but there's a moment which cogent thought is obliterated by the fact that--despite the lack of response yesterday--the Doctor is _hard now_. Hard enough that the weight of Pavel's hand makes him groan again and press his face to Pavel's throat.  
  
  
 _This makes no sense,_  Pavel thinks as the Doctor nips stinging little bites on his neck and collarbones. Bites that make a sound come out of Pavel's throat that he's never heard before, make him clutch at the Doctor as if to keep him close. To urge him on. _Yesterday, he didn't respond when I touched him, and now, when I'm far from my best . . ._ this.  
  
  
It's this final conundrum that makes it kick in at long last: his mathematically, logically inclined mind reasserts itself for the first time in the better part of a year. At least where the Doctor is concerned. His underused and lately ignored brain takes his hand gently, and walks him through what's been happening. Presents it as a problem of logic:  
  
  
 _Statement 1,_  it says patiently, as his body shivers and quivers. As the Doctor takes his mouth again with soft sigh, and talented hands slide their way under the Graceland t-shirt.  
  
  


  
**Statement 1:**  The first time I kissed the Doctor, he let me. He seemed too shocked to return it, but definitely was not pushing me away.  _Would not_  have pushed me away, in all likelihood, had Mr. Scott not interrupted us.

 

**Statement 2:**  The second time I kissed the Doctor, he kissed me back. Tenderly, insofar as I'm able to judge these things. He was in no hurry for it to end.

  
  
  
(That kiss had, in fact, been the first time Pavel consciously acknowledged that he had no wish to ever kiss anyone else, and in the midst of  _this_  kiss, that memory triggers his possessive streak, leads him to take control of this kiss even as he'd eventually controlled the kiss in the officer's lounge.)  
  
  


  
**Statement 3:** Immediately after that kiss in the lounge, the Doctor had exhibited all the documented signs of genuine arousal: flushed skin, accelerated breathing and heart-rate, dilated pupils, a noticeable decrease in focus, and most tellingly of all . . . he was hard. Hard enough that not even a baggy sweater could hide it completely.

 

**Statement 4:**  The third time we kissed ( _third_  . . . one could indeed extrapolate much from the quantity of kisses, if not the quality and frequency), just before Trinh's memorial--that third time, the Doctor had kissed  _me_.

 

**Statement 5:**  The Doctor is hard  _now_ , and making no attempt at subterfuge. Has initiated this kiss unbidden, and is hard because of me. Is sucking and biting love-marks onto my neck, and my . . . shoulders . . . through his t-shirt. . . .

  
  
  
(Pavel's intellect, which has more than once been embarrassingly described as both  _towering_  and  _intimidating_ , is currently both _cowed_  and  _distracted_. So much so that he can barely follow his logic to its conclusion. Has to resort to a standby he hasn't needed since the worst sloughs of puberty: reciting the Fibonacci sequence as a kind of wall between intellect and hormones.)  
  
  


  
**Statement 6:**  The only time the Doctor hasn't responded to me was last night. Minutes before the memorial of a patient he lost. Surely only a few hours after engaging in sexual activity with Mr. Shrijn. Activity that . . . according to the security system . . . lasted approximately five hours and thirty-seven minutes. And after which, one might be . . . worn out . . . or so I imagine.

  
  
  
“Christ,” the Doctor breathes on his right shoulder, half grunt, half laugh. His fingers beat unrecognizable patterns on Pavel's back. “You've got a mean grip on you.”  
  
  
“Is that a complaint?”  _Perhaps you would prefer Mr. Shrijn's hand to mine?_  he nearly adds, nearly takes his hand away, but before he can do either the Doctor sits back a little, eyes shining and face relaxed. His hands come up to cup Pavel's face.   
  
  
“Not from me,” he says, more gently than anything he's ever said to Pavel, holding his gaze as if trying to communicate by stare alone. And when he kisses Pavel this time, it's different from the others. Tender, yes. Passionate, yes. But there's something else, too. Something Pavel can't name, but has been hungry for for months. Possibly years.  
  
  
“I didn't mean for this to happen. So fast,” the Doctor quickly adds when Pavel stiffens in his arms. “I had this speech, about--damn, I can't even remember what-all. Just that I wanted to wine you and dine you--court you proper before I took you to bed.”  
  
  
“Vhat? Vhat is  _court_? Pavel asks, his towering, and overwhelmed intellect calling up images of Academic Tribunals, Admiral Barnett, and JAG lawyers. But that doesn't seem to fit with what's happening at all. Doesn't fit with the Doctor's hand sliding back under t-shirt, this time to lightly thumb a nipple. “Oh,  _Doctor_ \--”  
  
  
“ _Leonard_ ,” the Doctor says, eyes darting down to Pavel's lips, then back up. He smiles, crooked and charming and unrestrained, like he had in the old photo with the green-eyed woman. “Not that it's any hardship for me to hear  _sir_  and  _doctor_  fall from your lips--” a quick kiss “--but when we're alone, if you want, you can call me Leonard.”  
  
  
“Okay. Leonard,” Pavel says uncertainly, trying, really, to make it sound natural, the way it sounds when he slips and accidentally calls the Doctor by his first name. The other, still mostly sane half of his mind is trying desperately to remember that conclusion he was fumbling for. But the Doctor's--Leonard's kissing him again, seemingly oblivious to morning breath that even Pavel is heartily sick of. The hand that isn't under the Graceland t-shirt covers Pavel's. Makes that mean grip a little meaner, and pushes against it harder.  
  
  
The Doctor's guiding hand on his own that makes the part of Pavel's mind that's gibbering about conclusions and hypotheses momentarily irrelevant. But it's possessiveness--and contrariness--that makes him swat away the Doctor's hand, so he can take his time exploring the contours of the Doctor's erection.  
  
  
To search for the button of his fly with the single-minded intention to, at least  _feel_  him, skin-to-skin, in case this  _is_  just some brief insanity on the Doctor's part.  
  
  
 _Conclusion,_  his mind whispers urgently, as he nearly rips off the button trying to undo it. His hands have never been as nimble as his mind. (If they had been, he might have appreciated art more.)  
  
  
But at least the Doctor's zipper doesn't put up much of a fight, and it's pure luck that the opening of the Doctor's boxers is  _just_ where it needs to be for Pavel to slip his hand inside, and--  
  
  
“Fuck. Oh.  _Fuck_ ,” the Doctor says softly, helplessly, his head falling back a little, as he shudders and shakes. As Pavel merely holds him, branding the solidheatsoft of him into memory.  
  
  


  
**Conclusion:**  The Doctor is, if nothing else, sexually attracted to me. Last night was an aberration, or possibly he was too . . . sexed-out to respond to me. But at this moment, and almost any other in which I made a sexual advance, his response, though hesitant and uncertain, was unambiguous. Is  _at this moment_  unambiguous. Dr. McCoy wants me. Perhaps a lot.

  
  
  
“God, this is--so damn wrong, and so damn  _good_ , but we're moving too  _fast. Pasha_ \--” the Doctor grits out, very obviously trying not to thrust into Pavel's hand. Not that he has to try for long. Pavel sits back as if slapped, drawing himself away from the startled Doctor and to the wall behind the bio-bed.   
  
  
“How do you know that vord?” he demands, startled and upset. Because there's no way, simply no way the Doctor could or should know to call him that. “Vhere did you hear it?”  
  
  
The Doctor looks surprised, and confused. Still vulnerable. “You, um, asked me to call you Pasha. Last night, in the Gallery. But only if I meant it and,” he says, and takes a long deep breath. “I mean it.”  
  
  
Pavel shakes his head in negation. Checks in briefly with his rational mind, and finds it as flabbergasted as he is, spitting out random prime numbers and square roots like shot pellets. The Doctor was right about one thing: he now knows more about his limits than he previously suspected. “You--do not ewen know vhat 'Pasha' means!”  
  
  
“Actually, I do.” Off Pavel's doubtful look, that scowl makes its first appearance, and the Doctor gingerly tucks himself away and zips his trousers. (Pavel fleetingly wishes he'd looked when he had the chance.) “It's a diminutive of Pavel--a fond one, at that, to be used by a loved one . . . or a lover. See? You're not the only one who can use Enterprise's resources for something other than work, brain-trust.”  
  
  
“I vould bid you be careful, then, sir. Sometimes vhen digging, ve turn up things ve do not vant to see or know,” Pavel says, pulling his legs up to his chest,  _not_  closing his eyes,  _not_  hunching in on himself, and  _most definitely not_  remembering the way the Doctor had kissed Mr. Shrijn: hard, urgently, like a man reaching for a lifeline. . . .  
  
  
And then they'd disappeared into Mr. Shrijn's quarters and the doors slid shut, locking out security and Pavel. (Who could've, if he'd wanted to, hacked the Andorian's personal database and monitor to act as a sender/receiver. Could've confirmed his very worst imaginings with observable proof . . . but that's a line Pavel has sworn he will never cross for any reason, and he's not in the habit of breaking oaths to himself or others).  
  
  
“Oh, no. We're not playin'  _that_  game, kid. Been there, done that, don't need the t-shirt, okay? I'm not gonna apologize for everyone I fucked before I was with you--and I damn-sure ain't gonna let you use 'em as whiffle bats upside my head every time you get mad at me.” The Doctor tries to glare, but he just looks miserable. Like a man who can't back down from his principles, but wishes desperately that he could, just this once. In short, he looks as miserable as Pavel feels. "Goddamnit--Shrijn's not the one I wanna be with, alright?”  
  
  
The intimation would be--at least were the Doctor someone with a less contrary, and convoluted personality--that he wants to be with Pavel. But Pavel's learned from his mistakes. To not take anything for granted where this man is concerned, kisses and touches quite aside. “Then vhy  _vere_  you vith him?”  
  
  
“To convince myself I wasn't feeling exactly what I  _am_  feeling for you. Apparently I'm the only one who's surprised  _that_  plan didn't work,” the Doctor says bitterly. But neither the bitterness nor the answer are good enough. Not after . . . everything. Not when his heart is doing it's best to beat itself into an arrest, and the formerly logical part of his mind is putting the cart some way ahead of horse, smug at being proven right.  
  
  
The Doctor wants him. But that, too, is simply not enough. If all Pavel wanted was to be wanted, there are indeed other men of easier temperament that he could turn to. Has turned  _down_ , all for his seemingly hopeless love of the man in front of him.  
  
  
“And vhat exactly  _do_  you feel for me?” he asks as stonily as possible. He means to have a plain answer that leaves no more room for angst or second-guessing. “Sir?”  
  
  
The scowl deepens, colored with anger and resentment. “Damnit, you're not even gonna meet me halfway on this, are you? Gonna make me crawl every last inch?”  
  
  
Anger flares in Pavel, so hot and bright, he has to cross his arms and close his eyes to contain it. When he finally opens them again, the Doctor is staring resolutely off into a corner. “Is it so much to vant an honest admission of vhatever feelings, if any, you may have for me? Leonard, I have been meeting you more than halfvay from the start, and all you do is draw me closer, to shove me  _avay_  harder!  _I_  am tired of being shoved. Of crawling. So if you have feelings for me, tell me plainly . . . or leave me alone for good.”  
  
  
To that there is no reply, unless the Doctor's still-resolute stare counts.  
  
  
Which it certainly doesn't to Pavel. So he swings his tired legs over the opposite side of the bio-bed and pushes himself to his feet--  
  
  
\--only to collapse to the floor on legs made of trembling papier mache. He's so loose-limbed, it doesn't hurt, so much as it startles. One moment he's brushing the Doctor's restraining hand off his arm as his feet touch the floor, the next, he's looking up into the Doctor's surprised eyes.  
  
  
“Ow,” Pavel says belatedly, and laughs.  
  
  
The Doctor goggles down at him for several moments, before disappearing. Only to reappear around the front of the bio-bed, still wide-eyed with worry. He looks barely older than Pavel. “Jesus, kid!”  
  
  
“Vas, ah . . . vas that normal?” Pavel asks, slightly winded, more than a little dazed. Now the room is spinning, and he feels incredibly light-headed. Light- _everythinged_.  
  
  
“No, it wasn't.” The Doctor kneels next to him, scowling again, concern hidden behind annoyance. “ _Normal_ , is someone who's had his blood and vital organs chemically cleaned to within an inch of the life he damn near lost, keeping his ass in bed when the Doc says  _keep_.”  
  
  
“Oh.” Pavel leans his head back against the bio-bed and closes his eyes against unpleasantly persistent vertigo as the Doctor produces a tricorder from  _somewhere_ , and scans him.  
  
  
“Stupid goddamn kid,” he mutters, and instead of being angry, Pavel finds himself smiling a little. Trying not to laugh again. “It's like you're goddamned  _naked_  all the time--every sling, every arrow is a hit. You've gotta grow some  _armor_ , damnit, or else you're gonna spend a lotta your life being hurt by a lotta people."  
  
  
"That sounds like the woice of experience."  
  
  
"Oh, shut up." One not particularly careful thumb peels back Pavel's left eyelid, then the right, taking only a moment to temporarily blind him in each by flashing a bright white light. "For your information, I slept with him in a clearly pointless attempt to try and get over  _you_. I told myself that all I needed was a good lay, and suddenly you wouldn't seem so. . . .”  
  
  
He trails off with a frustrated huff, and Pavel peeks a little under his lashes. The Doctor's glaring at the tricorder hard enough that it must very shortly begin to smoke and melt.  
  
  
Pavel considers his next question carefully. Isn't sure why he needs to know, only that he does. “And vas he that, Doctor? A . . . _good lay_?”  
  
  
“Yes.” A pause--for remembrance or . . . merely a pause. Pavel chooses not to speculate which. “Just not good enough to . . . erase, or eclipse the fact that I'm. . . .” the Doctor leans against the bio-bed, his arm a solid weight that makes Pavel relax, then tense up again.. “That I am and have been falling in love with you.”  
  
  
Pavel opens his eyes, until they feel like dinner plates in his face. He'd hoped for an admission of interest and attraction. Of fondness. But this-- “You . . .  _vhat_?”  
  
  
"Love, Ensign. I am. Falling. In with you.” The Doctor sighs heavily. “When I fall in love, generally my life winds up screwed eight ways to hell, so cut me a little slack, okay? 'Opening up' to others isn't exactly easy for me. And what happened between Shrijn an' me . . . happened. Finito, done. I don't regret it, and I won't apologize for it . . . though I will apologize for causing you pain. That's something I never wanted to do. But I'll  _never_  hurt you that way again, if . . . if you still think you wanna be with me. And I hope you do, because I wanna be with you.”  
  
  
Pavel pulls the Doctor's hand up to his chest. To his heart, which he can feel beating through the Doctor's hand--though he is utterly overwhelmed. Stunned to the point of numbness.  
  
  
“My few sterling qualities aside, I ain't a romp through a field of daisies, Pavel. It'll be like having a second full-time career, putting up with me most days. You're gonna have to learn not to wilt when I'm an asshole. Which'll be often, fair warning. You're gonna have to give as good as you get, or you'll get walked over. Or pushed away."  
  
  
"Understood, sir. I vill be wigilant, sir," Pavel says so calmly, even he's almost convinced that his heart isn't suddenly going a million kilometers per second. Trying to break free of the viscera around it, and the chest containing it.  
  
  
“If I'm being a bastard, well, you just be a bigger bastard back, or tell me to stay the hell away from you till I stop acting like a . . . big jerk," the Doctor continues quietly, fiercely, seeming to be quite unaware of the racing of Pavel's heart. That the man he just dropped the 'love-bomb' on is fighting not to collapse in tears of relief and joy. "If the prospect of losing you doesn't make me come to what passes for my senses, probably nothing will, and you'll be better off without me. If--”  
  
  
"Vhat does that beeping signify?" Pavel interrupts tersely, pointing at the tricorder which is, indeed, beeping away. He frowns at it, as if it's the cause of all his ills, and Pavel quickly wipes at his eyes and tries to tame the muscles in his face. To keep them from forming a huge rictus of a grin.  
  
  
"Ah . . . your heart's really goin'. Blood pressure's a bit elevated, and, ah," the Doctor says. Then he blushes, and smiles a little. But like he's trying not to smile a  _lot_. Pavel glances down at the tricorder, but can't make heads nor tails of the data. "You're half-dead, ensign. The last thing you need is sex on my desk, no matter what your crazy, teen-aged hormones are tellin' you.”  
  
  
Pavel laughs, still embarrassed about that, but far too happy to mind, and scoots a bit closer. Leans his head on the Doctor's shoulder with a contented sigh. “Is that your diagnosis?”  
  
  
“No, my diagnosis is: a case of incurable obstinacy for you, and possible insanity for me,” the Doctor shoots back on some sort of sarcasm autopilot, but his arm slides around Pavel with determination. Hugs him close. "I'd like very much to kiss you, again.”  
  
  
“I have overhang-breath. Is horrible,” Pavel apologizes, turning his face away. But the Doctor turns it back and toward him. Looks into his eyes, and smiles before kissing him gently, tenderly. Very, very thoroughly. When he stops, Pavel really has to fight the grin. Lays his face on the Doctor's shoulder once more.  
  
  
“You're smart and funny, beautiful and sweet. Sweet enough to deserve better than you'll be getting. And I'll be honest, Pavel: I think you're nuts throwing yourself at an old bastard like me. But, as you've said many times, and in many ways, you're a man. You can make up your own mind, and your own heart. So I'll try not to tell you how to feel, who to feel it for, and how to live your life. If you want to be with me, then. . . .” the Doctor trails off wonderingly, and kisses Pavel's forehead. "Well, then, I'll just count myself lucky for as long as it you let me."  
  
  
"Then you vill alvays be lucky, because I vill alvays be nuts," Pavel says, quirking a smile because he knows the Doctor is rolling his eyes. "You are the vone I vant, and I vill happily say that as often as you vill let me. Oftener, ewen. No matter how many other men I  _could_  be vith, I am already vith the man I vant."  
  
  
"Well. I won't say that's the most awful thing I've ever heard.” The Doctor clears his throat as Pavel kisses the underside of his jaw.  
  
  
They've been looking into each other's eyes again for a long time, when they lean in toward each other at the same time and a throat clears itself from beyond the privacy screen.  
  
  
The Doctor immediately barks: “Damnit, don't you have files to update?”  
  
  
“Don't you have  _other_  patients to attend to?” The voice asks coolly, calmly, sounding--Pavel would swear--rather amused. “How are you feeling, Pavel?”  
  
  
“Much better, Nurse Chapel! Tank you, Nurse Chapel!” he replies, and the Doctor grimaces.  
  
  
“That's good.” Near noiseless feet pad away from the cubicle and Pavel smiles. Sighing, the Doctor tries to turn his grimace into a smile, too.  
  
  
“Well, at least one of us is in good with General Chapel--the real CMO of this boat.” The Doctor helps Pavel to his feet. This time, the papier mache legs hold him up . . . mostly. And they feel more like half-cooked noodles, now. “She runs a tight ship, so I'd best snap to. C'mon, kiddo. Let's get you back in bed.”  
  
  
“I have been vaiting for you to say that to me for months,” Pavel half-jokes, sitting on the bio-bed happily, looking up at the Doctor because he genuinely has eyes for nothing and no one else. The Doctor steps between his legs and brushes his finger along the curve of Pavel's cheek . . . traces his lips. Swears when Pavel kisses his finger, then--in a feat of dering-do only ever seen in movie-seductions--closes his lips around it. Sucks on it.  
  
  
The gaping, astonished look on the Doctor's face is amusing and gratifying. So gratifying he increases the suction by a factor of three.  
  
  
“I'm, uh . . . courting you, Pavel . . . remember?” The Doctor asks hoarsely, his eyes glued to his finger sliding in and out of Pavel's mouth. Or to Pavel's mouth sliding on and off his finger.  
  
  
“Mm-hmm.” Pavel remembers, but still doesn't know what this  _courting_  means. Only that it might mean no sex, or at least waiting to have sex, so he's not sure he approves.  
  
  
“Good. That means we get to, uh, have to get to know each other first. Go on dates, and meet each other's friends--though you've already met Jim, and I've met Sulu. And unfortunately Scotty--but generally take it easy with the . . . the touchy-feely and hanky-pan--you know you're making it impossible for me to complete a thought here, and there's a patient waiting. . . .”  
  
  
Pavel swirls his tongue around the Doctor's finger, before pulling off with a pronounced sucking sound and a too-innocent smile.  
  
  
“Okay,  _now_  I am done. You may go,” he says, swinging his legs up onto the bio-bed and laying down. The Doctor stares at him like he's never seen him before.  
  
  
“God, you look good in my shirts,” he says, displaying more of that flattering lack of focus. Pavel bites his lower lip, and the Doctor's eyes track even that unconscious gesture before he shakes his head as if to clear it. “Never mind. You free tonight?”  
  
  
Trying to keep his smile from turning into a smirk, Pavel attempts the sexy sort of nonchalant-sliding-of-one-hand-under-the-shirt-and-up-the-chest move he's also only ever seen done in movie-seductions, and only by very attractive men. From the way the Doctor's still staring, he's not doing too badly at it, though. “Your qvarters, or mine, Doctor?”  
  
  
“ _Neither_. I was . . . thinking we could have a, uh . . . dinner date. In the Mess, after my shift, and afterwards--”  
  
  
“Aftervards?” Pavel slides the hand down, feeling vaguely ridiculous, but trying not to blush. To act as if he has a body that could tempt someone like the Doctor.  
  
  
 _Apparently I do,_  he thinks with a large measure of disbelief that he suspects he'll never shake.  
  
  
“The Arboretum!” the Doctor exclaims, seemingly startling them both. Then he clears his throat. “We could go to the Arboretum afterwards, and walk. And . . . uh, talk.”  
  
  
“Or . . . ve could valk until ve find a qviet, secluded corner suitable for kissing in. And kiss,” Pavel says, and some little inkling of smirk must creep into his smile, because the Doctor rolls his eyes. But he looks far more amused than annoyed. Far more interested than not.  
  
  
“Or that,” he says dryly, nudging open the privacy screen a bit. He peeks out, then ducks back in, hurrying over to Pavel, who sits up in anticipation of the kiss he expects, and gets. It's not a long one, but nonetheless Pavel's jeans feel a little too snug by the time the Doctor ends it with a frustrated sigh.  
  
  
“Damnit, I  _will_  court you properly,” he says, bussing Pavel's cheek chastely before stalking out of the cubicle, barely pausing to yank the screen shut behind him.  
  
  
Leaving Pavel to drift off into his own head-space, hard, happy, with tears running down his face as he stifles an inappropriate case of the giggles.  
  
  
The logical part of his brain, still walloped by the Doctor's admission, barely notices when he makes a mental note to memorize a map of the Arboretum once he gets back to his quarters. He's certain there are many, many places there in which to ambush his brand new boyfriend with kisses, but. . . .

. . . it never hurts to plan ahead.


	13. Fortune's Wheel: The Courtship of Pavel Chekov 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ups and downs--but mostly ups--of Leonard and Pavel's early relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Takes place after The Overhang.

All Bones'd  _meant_  to do was kiss the kid  _hello_. Really.  
  
  
Just plant a little smooch on his smooth cheek, then they'd hit the Mess for dinner, and then stroll around the Arboretum.  
  
  
But Pavel, grinning cheekily from the moment the door to the CMO's quarters opened, had turned his face at the last second, and before Bones knew it, they were trying their damnedest to perform mutual tonsillectomies on each other. Staggering back into his quarters, tugging at each other's clothing, making desperate noises, and tripping over a low ottoman-like piece of furniture (Jim's a magpie who finds the damnedest things in alien bazaars, and somehow those things wind up cluttering  _Bones_ 's quarters) to land on the floor with a jarring thud.  
  
  
“Oof!” Pavel exclaims, grinning and blushing--wriggling around on top of Bones  _far_  more than is necessary. And surely Bones is stunned from the impact of the fall, and from eight and a half stone of Russian genius compounding said impact, or he'd put a stop to this in an instant.  
  
  
Surely.  
  
  
As it is, he claims the exclamation and the lips that'd issued them in another kiss, and rolls them over, till he's pinning Pavel with his bodyweight. Not that Pavel's trying to get anywhere but  _closer_.  
  
  
There's no way the kid was this hard before he got here. He wouldn't have been able to conceal  _this_ , let alone walk with it in a way that wouldn't draw unwanted attention. Which means. . . .  
  
  
Well. It's been fairly obvious for over a month that Pavel wants him. A  _lot_. Why, exactly, Bones still isn't sure. He's made a point of mentioning that Enterprise is packed to the rafters with better-looking, younger, soberer, nicer guys than himself. Most of them would jump at a chance to be with Pavel, but Pavel doesn't want any of  _them_.  
  
  
“You want  _me_ ,” Bones says, or maybe asks. Pavel smiles, trying to grind himself against Bones, but he's held pretty firmly in place by greater strength and weight. That smile widens, and Pavel licks his lips.  
  
  
“Since forever, it feels like . . . vant you to touch me, Doctor.” Warm, clumsy fingers clench and release on the back of his shirt, hesitating at the hem before sliding under it to splay on his back like happy starfish. Pavel's legs struggle out from under Bones's to bracket them, then wrap around them and tug him closer. Close enough that Bones really is left with no doubts as to how much Pavel wants this. “You feel  _sooooo_  good.”  
  
  
“Ditto.”  _Courtship bedamned,_  Bones thinks, kissing Pavel's lips, his cheek, the bridge of his nose, and his eyelids--anything he can reach. Which makes Pavel giggle, like the kid he is, and . . . no.  
  
  
There're  _reasons_  Bones wanted to take things a lot slower than  _this_ , goddamnit, and here's a big one, staring him in the face. “God--look, kid--” he begins, bracing his arms on the floor in preparation to shift his weight up and away. But Pavel's giving him a look that's as stern as it is hungry, and those legs apparently  _ain't_  letting go any time soon. Tighten around him like a vice. “Kid, I want you, too, I do, but we agreed--”  
  
  
“I am not  _kid_. I am  _Pavel_. Or Pasha,” he insists, his voice low and almost hoarse, his eyes glowing like dilithium, only a hell of a lot more dangerous. Cool air hits Bones's back for a second before his shirt slips back down, and Pavel's hands are on his face, still warm and gentle.  
  
  
He's still hard, just like Bones is, every slight movement, every breath taken or released making them harder. “Please, Leonard. Don't stop.”  
  
  
“I--goddamnit,” Bones mutters, momentarily torn and guiltily hesitant about  _stopping_ , as opposed to continuing. He casts about within himself, trying in a positively Spock-ish manner, to weigh the reasons for and against, lay out the pros and cons. But all he knows in this moment is that he wants to see what Pavel looks like when he comes. Wants to hear his own name torn from those lips on the back of a banshee-wail, but--  
  
  
\--neither of them need to be diving into this . . . whatever it is they're trying to have . . . hormones first. Especially Bones, because. . . .  
  
  
Pavel's kissing him again, and wherever that particular train of thought was headed to, it gets derailed effectively. As always, once Pavel's mouth opens under his own, that's all she wrote for rational thinking, for the next little while. All that matters is Pavel's arms and legs around him, Pavel's yielding, demanding body underneath his--and the sounds he makes as Bones thrusts against him all the harder for the cloth barriers between them.  
  
  
And Pavel's not just returning his ardor, but matching it, his kisses turned into heavy, humid pants: a sharing of air that's loud and indelicate, but feels as silent and sacred as a brief lull in a maelstrom.  
  
  
He gasps out something in Russian that sounds both filthy and affectionate. Bones can pick out the word for "doctor" (he knows a few dozen words of Russian thanks to Pavel, and wishes he knew more, especially now) and one soft  _Leonard_  is mixed in, too, followed by, “oh, yes. Oh, please. I  _vant_. . . .”  
  
  
“Tell me what you want, Pasha?” And that's always been a kink: dirty-talk. One that'd lain long undiscovered and untended to till he met Ethan. He half thinks that sexual compatibility is most of why they stayed together so long. In that respect, they'd been each others' other half from night one.  
  
  
(Idiot romantic that he was, Bones'd tended to equate such compatibility with true-love--he eventually realized that was  _true-love_ with a capital  _bull_  and capital  _shit_ \--and though he'd never voiced such naïve hopes to Ethan, Ethan probably guessed early on that Bones's crusty outer shell covered a soft core of hearts and flowers. And--  
  
  
\--and this really isn't the time to think about the false foundation his second marriage had been built on.)  
  
  
“ _Atsasee mne_ ,” Pavel moans, his eyes fluttering shut. Then he laughs. “Will sound seelly if I say in English.  _Everything_  sounds seelly in English.” He kisses Bones hard, but without his usual care and precision, not that Bones is complaining. “I must teach you more Russian.”  
  
  
 _Which doesn't actually sound as brain-killingly un-fun as it might once have,_  Bones reflects. Then realizes reflecting is just another name for  _thinking_ , and that there's a handy cure for that: Pavel Chekov. All mussed-up and horny, looking like the most divine thing the Lord ever made. Talking dirty in a language Bones tends to find nigh incomprehensible, but quite a turn-on, nonetheless. . . .  
  
  
He couldn't be any harder if he was actually  _in_  Pavel, instead of just trying to grind him bodily into the floor while watching him work himself up to what appears to be the most intense orgasm of his young life.   
  
  
Suddenly, the Russian dirty-talk stutters to a stop. Tears leak from the corners of Pavel's tight-shut eyes before he flings his head back, Adam's-apple bobbing, and Bones learns several things about Ensign Chekov he never knew, and will never forget:  
  
  
Pavel's neither a screamer nor silent--even when he's getting close. Instead, he makes breathy, sexy little gasps, each one followed by sigh-like sounds, only sweeter and . . . so goddamn much  _prettier_ ;  
  
  
Pavel flushes.  _Deeply_. Not brick-red, or hectic, mottled-scarlet--which, with his beyond-fair complexion, is what Bones was expecting--no, he flushes a deep, almost rosy sort of pink, like there's a soft light shining through his skin. He's probably like that all over, and Bones wishes he'd had the sense to pull the kid's damn shirt off--or at least push it  _up_ ;  
  
  
When Pavel finally slips over the edge, those delicious, intoxicating gasps and not-quite sighs  _stop_. His closed eyes squinch even tighter and he bites his lip hard enough that it should be bleeding . . . but isn't. There's a moment of perfect stillness, then he arches up so hard, he nearly throws Bones right off him.  
  
  
“I--I-- _Doctor_. . . .” falls from bitten lips in a soft, desperate whisper that's somehow better than a banshee-wail.  
  
  
 _And that may as well_ be _my name,_  Bones thinks almost blithely. Then he doesn't think anything else for a time. Instead, his consciousness consumed by light and heat like a supernova--uplifted and eradicated, his ashes left to drift in the most restful darkness he's ever known, while elsewhere, he's kept safe by strong, loving arms.  
  


*

  
  
_When the heart is full, the mind tends to be empty,_  his old Grand-Mama, had often said, and not always with disparagement.  
  
  
If there was anything she was ever wrong about, she certainly never lived to cross paths with it.  
  
  
Bones has serious doubts  _he_  will live to see it, even if he lives to be two hundred. In this, as in so many other things, she hit the nail right on the head. His heart is filled to overflowing with something he's too gun-shy to name, but that manifests itself as damn-near-complete contentment.  
  
  
He is . . .  _content_  to drift, to simply sprawl on top of Pavel (who doesn't complain about being unable to breathe, like Ethan did, or squirm around restlessly, eager to do something else that  _wasn't_  simply enjoying a moment of peace, like Mary Jo did). He's content to simply  _be_ , thinking about nothing except the way his own heart-beat seems to keep time with the gentle throb below it.  
  
  
Leonard McCoy is, after a long while, and at long last . . .  _content_. . . .  
  
  
At least till the afterglow begins to recede a little, and conscious thought strides onto the playing field to do battle once more. Smiling in a way that feels ridiculous and wonderful, he finally props himself up on arms again, and gazes down at . . . his lover.  
  
  
Pavel's big baby-blues are still dreamy and unfocused--two qualities that don't change much when they finally do fetch up on Bones's face, except to get . . . dreamier. Unfocused-er. Fonder. He's still flushed, his lips are still red and swollen, and his hair's a tangled mess. There are livid hickies all over his neck and throat, and--  
  
  
“Lord above, you're gorgeous,” Bones tells him, kissing and nuzzling any bits of Pavel that are within reach, and that don't seem averse to nuzzling. “Absolutely lovely.”  
  
  
“Am  _not_ ,” Pavel says, but there's a pleased smile on his face and a blush in his cheeks. “Don't change the subject.”  
  
  
“Oh, well, I beg pardon, but was there a subject under discus--oh,  _fuck_ ," Bones hisses, when Pave shimmies under him, and smirks.  
  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
  
Bones'd have a thing or two to say about that smugness, really, he would, but that Pavel doesn't give him the chance. Occupies his mouth with other, more pleasant activity than talking.  
  
  
At some point, Pavel's legs had loosened of their own volition, either from strain or distraction--or more likely by plan, since his hand is working its way between their bodies and fumbling unsuccessfully with Bones's zipper. But the fumbling alone is enough to make Bones groan and curse his own damned sense of honor, as well as his body's apparently shrinking refractory time. At least till the zipper's finally down, and that hand neither wastes time nor takes any detours on its way into his way into his damp, clinging boxers.  
  
  
“Oh, Christ!” It's annoying, the strength of his response to that touch. Considering that he just came not ten minutes ago, and this isn't the first time Pavel's touched him skin-to-skin like this. Nawssir, the first time would be a little over a day ago, in Sickbay. Running on precious little sleep, Bones had more than allowed that touch, he'd  _encouraged it_. Helped it along, not that much was needed in the way of  _help_.  
  
  
Pavel's shaping up to be a natural at hand-jobs, like he is at everything else.  
  
  
Somehow, the intervening day since his last attempt at it, has only improved him. Bones's arms are shaking, not from holding himself up, but from most of his blood diverting once more to all points south'ard. “Jesus, I'm about to fold like a card-table, and squash you again,” he warns when Pavel lets him up for air. It's all he has  _time_  to say, before they're kissing again, swallowing each others' moans and gasps.   
  
  
There is, he knows, a pattern to Pavel's actions. It's just a job of work to call him on it, or even to care overmuch. It's clear that they both want what's happening, even if it may not be the wisest course of action, or the most honorable thing for either of them to be doing: manipulating, and purposely giving in to that manipulation, respectively.  
  
  
Bones isn't a man used to giving in to what he wants, so when he does . . . it's alright to just  _have_ , isn't it? Without worry, or guilt, or fear that letting go of the reins will somehow ruin his life, the universe, and everything?  
  
  
“Please . . . you will make love to me, now?” Pavel whispers on his lips, flickers of tongue and warm minty breath. His hand is neither hesitant, nor gentle--no, Pavel isn't striving for something as nebulous and teasing as  _foreplay_. In his usual, straight-forward fashion, he's trying to get Bones as hard as he can, as quickly as he can. “I  _vant_  you to, and I know  _you vant_  to.”  
  
  
Understatement of the year. Of goddamn  _eternity_ , and Bones wants, even more than he wants Pavel, to not have to be in control. Not have to keep himself in check all the goddamn time.  
  
  
But he knows if he doesn't . . . if he can't keep his own word to himself about this, if not to Pavel, there'll come a day when he won't even be able to look himself in the eye for self-loathing. It may have taken him two busted marriage to learn from his mistakes, from his own  _weaknesses_ , but learn he has. Letting his dick be his guide is a regret he doesn't need thrice-over.  
  
  
“'Course I  _want_  to, Pavel. I ain't dead.” He isn't saying anything they both don't know. Just stringing two sentences together is a job of work, but his mind . . . his mind is clear and made up, aside from what his heart, or the idiot in his boxers thinks.  
  
  
 _Huh. I guess now, I can die, having officially seen_  everything.  _Grand-Mama was wrong about something._  “But I can't. I won't. This is all wrong."  
  
  
" _Wrong?_ " Pavel's bedroom eyes turn into his stricken puppy-eyes--not at all put-on, which is why Pavel's puppy-eyes are so _damned_  effective. Bones is on close speaking terms with feeling like the biggest bastard in the galaxy, but at this moment, it feels more like he's kissing cousins with said feeling. "I . . . you . . . do not like vhat I do?"  
  
  
" _No_ \--I mean  _yes_ , I like what you do, oh, honey, I like what you do a  _lot_ ," Bones hastens to amend, kissing Pavel briefly, or at least he means to keep the kiss brief. But time turns to taffy again, and Pavel's switching up his serve, alternating brisk-strong-efficient strokes with slow-light-experimental strokes, occasionally bringing his thumb into play across the tip of Bones's cock, and--  
  
  
\--this has to stop  _now_ , or there won't be  _any_  stopping till his own self-respect and Pavel's virginity are waving sadly at them in the rearview mirror.  
  
  
Bones risks balancing on one arm so he can catch Pavel's hand.  _Still it_ , as he pulls away from a kiss that may very well be the best he's ever had, and not just because it's the one he's waited longest for. “Sweetheart, wait,” he whispers, his lips brushing Pavel's cheek, on the way to his ear. The sudden and unexpected swipe of Pavel's thumb once, slow and hard, nearly has Bones coming on their hands. “Christ,  _stop_ , Pavel, and listen to me!”  
  
  
There's a heavy, humid sigh in Bones's ear, and Pavel's removing his hand and his legs, and turning his face to the side. “I vill stop, if that is vhat you vant,” he says in a tight, unhappy voice. When Bones sits up, braces himself on hands and knees, he catches a look of open longing on Pavel's face, as keen as a laser to the heart. Then he closes his eyes, his lashes a stubby brush on his cheeks and Bones is spared that yearning look.  
  
  
But he can still  _feel_  it, twisting in his chest, restless and burning.  
  
  
“I accept that you are about to turn me down, Doctor . . . for my own good, of course. And I know you are trying to do so as kindly as you're able. So I will . . . try to be content. For now,” Pavel says, in his most even, I- _will_ -be-an-adult-about-this voice. The one he only uses when he doesn't want Bones accusing him of acting his age.  
  
  
 _Jesus, one date in, and he already thinks he has to stifle himself for me to take him seriously,_  Bones realizes, another guilty stone on his heart and in the pit of his stomach.  _Why, why are we doing this? He should be with someone his own age, or at least closer to it than I am. He's a man, yes, but he and I are two completely_ different _men at two vastly different stages of our lives. This ain't gonna end well, and so help me, I think he'll be the one to get hurt, more so than I. . . ._  
  
  
Bones sighs and lays down on the floor--aware that he looks  _damned_  ridiculous, a grown man laying on the floor, three feet from his bed, with a hard-on that's on the brink of flagging poking out of his fly like a flesh-toned flagpole--next to Pavel, who rolls onto his side facing away. It's a few tense, quiet minutes before Bones dares to put a hand on his back. That Pavel doesn't pull away makes him a bit bolder, still.  
  
  
“So it's like  _that_ , is it?” he asks gently, and is more than mildly surprised at himself. He'd thought this particular form of . . . intimacy was just another thing the Ex-Wife took in the divorce.  
  
  
Pavel inhales deeply, but doesn't turn to face Bones. Doesn't even look over his shoulder. “Vhat is like  _vhat_ , Doctor?” His voice sounds strange and foggy. A little stuffed up, and like . . . well, Bones's always had a knack for making his significant others cry. Usually not so early in the relationship, but then age seems only to improve on his ability to fuck up both situations and the people in them. Even if the people are as relatively well-adjusted as Pavel.  
  
  
“Look, I can't take you fancy places, can't show you where I grew up, or show you off to everyone I grew up with. We can't go walking by a crick, or to a dance-hall. I can't take you on a swell trip to Risa or Rixx. I can't be open-hearted, or get rid of all the goddamn baggage I have, but I  _can_  court you . . . I can take my time, not rush either of us, let us get used to each other before we get . . .  _used to each other_. I can show you in the only way I have--and the only way I'm comfortable with, that you're worth waiting for, and that what we have may not be much  _yet_ , but I think it's worth doing  _right_. I care about you a great deal, Pavel, and I don't wanna get this-- _any of this_ \--wrong.”  
  
  
It's like performing an appendectomy on himself, each and every word. Individually. But it's something Pavel needs to hear, whether or not Bones needs to open a vein to say it.  
  
  
And this admission earns him a sound that could be a laugh, but probably isn't. Laughter isn't usually that frustrated or unhappy. “There is nothing to  _get wrong_ , Leonard. I  _love_  you . . . there is nothing to get wrong. Vhy von't you believe me?” Pavel asks shakily.  
  
  
Bones has to swallow hard against the towering, overwhelming tidal wave of that-label-he's-not-entirely-comfortable-with-bestowing-on-a-very-new proto-relationship. “Not believing you doesn't have anything to do with it, sweetheart. Being in love doesn't mean that we both couldn't wind up horribly hurt someday . . . I'm trying to avoid that--”  
  
  
“You think  _this_  does not hurt?”  
  
  
Bones hangs his head for a moment. Almost wishes he'd born the future self-loathing--that's another feeling he's overly familiar with--just to spare them both this conversation. Which he's sure they'll have at least several more times in the near future, if Pavel's determined to stick by him. “Not as bad as the regrets you could wind up with if I'm--if we're  _both_  not taking proper care with this thing we got goin'.” Bones rolls onto his side and drapes his arm over Pavel. Tucks his face into the warm, damp hollow between shoulder and neck, and simply  _breathes_  when, again, Pavel doesn't pull away, or say  _no_.  
  
  
Pavel takes his hand shyly, as if uncertain of his welcome, and that over-full feeling makes it temporarily hard to  _breathe_ , let alone think.  
  
  
“I want you more than I've wanted anyone in a very long time, and wanting someone--falling in love makes me do stupid, crazy things. Unwise things. I get jealous and insecure, I make mistakes because I don't think about consequences, or listen to my better angels. I've done it time and again, Pavel, but I don't wanna do that with you. Don't want you to regret . . . to look back and think that I pressured you and took too much, too fast. That I stole something from you you'll never get back.”  
  
  
“Leonard,” Pavel says quietly, almost too quiet for Bones to hear. Patient in a way that makes Bones feel like the there's a kid in this relationship, alright, and it ain't Pavel. “You must understand, you cannot steal what already is yours. Only open your eyes and accept it . . . and I suppose  _I_  must understand that you can only do that in your own time, when you are ready.”  
  
  
“Baby, I. . . .”   
  
  
Pavel turns over to face him, tears sparkling in his eyelashes and drying in tracks on his face. Bones shakes his head. “See . . . I've hurt you already,” he says brushing away one track, then the other. Pavel smiles, sweet and too sad by half for his age. Add to that the very, very sweet, mostly chaste kiss Bones gets, and the not-so-chaste hand tucking him back into his boxers and trousers with no little amount of fondling, and Bones is slipping back to that non-thinking place.   
  
  
“You are a seelly man,” Pavel informs him. “But I love you, and . . . I will wait. I do not wish  _you_  to regret anything ve do together. To think that the only reason I want to be with you is because we are having sex.”  
  
  
“Oh, I don't think that at all. If that was all you wanted, you're smart enough to know there're easier, better pickings available.” Bones snorts, suppressing a tiny surge of that jealousy he'd mentioned. “The only thing I doubt about you is your sanity, occasionally."  
  
  
Pavel rolls his eyes, one of Bones's bad habits he was quick to adopt. “I am crazy, alright. Crazy about you. Incurably crazy. There should be a special wing of Starfleet Medical just for me.” Sardonic words, but there's nothing sardonic about his hand on Bones's fly, which has long since been zipped.  
  
  
“Jesus, but you don't make it easy for man to stick by his principles,” he huffs, rolling onto his back again, and flinging his arm over his eyes. Pavel shifts with him, snuggling into his side and carefully examining his in-seam until Bones gives in and moves his arm. Looks into those dilithium-blue eyes.  
  
  
How can a look be so innocent and so  _dirty_  at the same time? Bones doesn't know, but it still sends all kind of chills up and down his spine, chills that shake him even more than the hand still stroking him through two layers of damned cloth. “I am not  _trying_  to make it easy for you to tell me no, Leonard . . . I am  _trying_  to sedooce you.”  
  
  
Which  _should_  be one of the funniest things Bones's ever heard for several reasons. And it  _is_ , but it's also damned compelling. Compelling, as in, he's pretty damned compelled to hang his own nonsense about honor, and promises kept, drag Pavel into his bed, and keep him there till security overrides the door to his quarters. “Yeah . . . I'd, uh, noticed.”  
  
  
“And I noticed that you noticed.” Pavel brushes the tip of his nose against Bones's, in a prolonged Eskimo kiss. He, too, is a man of his word, however. He removes his hand, and instead entwines it with Bones's, laying down next to him. “Beeg jerk.”  
  
  
"Don't you forget it.” Bones growls without any of his customary sting. “And just so y'know, first dates don't normally  _end_  with the daters dry-humping on the floor, Pasha. They definitely ain't supposed to  _start_  that way.”  
  
  
"Perhaps not, but  _normal_  is, I think, owerrated, da?"  
  
  
"Well." Bones clears his throat, and chooses discretion over truth or falsehood. Tugs on Pavel's hand till he catches on, and curls up against him (half on top of him, really) once more, his head resting on Bones's shoulder. Except for the fact that they're on the hard, unaccommodating floor, this moment is  _perfect_.  
  
  
“Anyvay,  _lyubimiy,_ ” Pavel says, yawning, “is not our first date. Is our . . . tventy-seventh.”  
  
  
Opening his eyes, Bones takes a moment to do the math on that one. Does it twice, even. “Now, I'm no Russian whiz-kid, but that sounds like a prize-winnin' load of hooey.”  
  
  
“No-no, not hooey,” Pavel protests in a sleepy version of that smug, patient, damnably adorable way he has--the one that says he just  _knows_  he's going to talk rings around Bones's inferior logic. “We have dinner together nearly every night for a month. Or we drink. Starting with the first night when I . . . vhat is--ah! Since the first night when I drink you under the table. Tventy-six times we spend the evening together. Tonight makes tventy-seven.”  
  
  
“That . . . is logic that I'm sure I couldn't dispute even if half my brain wasn't drying in my underwear. Speaking of, we oughtta get up before we dry like this,” Bones says, and Pavel groans.  
  
  
“Don't vant to.”  
  
  
“Yes, you do.  
  
  
“Don't.”  
  
  
“C'mon, I promised you dinner then a walk in the Arboretum . . . which was kinda predicated on both of us havin' full use of our legs but, well, no date is perfect. Mr. Vor is only serving olive loaf until twenty-two hundred hours. After that, it's just the, uh, usual soy medley.” Bones actually  _likes_  the soy medley, but he's noticed that Pavel's tastes are eerily akin to Jim's, and Jim acts like a goddamned martyr when he has to eat anything that hasn't been deep-fried in future heart-disease or coated in powdered sugar. Or both.  
  
  
Pavel makes a comically grossed-out sound. “Olive loaf is disgusting. I would rather eat soy medley.”  
  
  
Maybe Pavel's tastes aren't as close to Jim's as Bones had feared. “Really?”  
  
  
“Vell. I would rather eat something that feels like it had already been  _chewed_ , than something that tastes like it has already been _eaten_  . . . and like it should have been reclamated, rather than served on a plate. So yes, I prefer the soy medley to the olive loaf.”  
  
  
“Oh.” So much for  _that_  hope. “Mr. Vor'd take that personally--Bolians, you know.”  
  
  
“I'm in no rush to share that opinion with him. Is not his fault, anyway. He makes the best of bad situation. So much soy product, so many soldiers to cook for, from so many different places--”  
  
  
“--and all you ingrate bastards expecting home-cookin' just like mama made.”  
  
  
Pavel snorts. “My Mama is  _terrible_  cook--so is Papa. If Mr. Vor cooked like either of them, we would all starve.” He looks up at Bones and grins. “When I was child, we ate at local replimats, or if our schedules permitted, at my aunts' and uncles' dinner tables.”  
  
  
“Huh.” Bones frowns, and brushes Pavel's hair back from his forehead. The curls immediately spring back, not unexpectedly. “How would you like for me to cook you dinner, tonight?”  
  
  
"That . . . sounds vonderful.” Pavel walks his fingers up Bones's chest, and Bones can feel that big, cheeky grin on his shoulder. “Sadly, we are in no condition to go anywhere but shower, then to bed."  
  
  
“Nice try.” Bones kisses Pavel's hair, then ruffles it. “Vor'll let me putter around his kitchen as long as I don't make a mess and stay out of his way. So I'm thinking . . . Caeser salad and somde kinda hot side dish. Hummus, or quinoa. Oh, and Midshipman Hsieh's found a way to make re-engineered night-blooming jasmine  _and_  kudzu grow in the Arboretum--not too far from the perennials. I'm told it's actually . . . rather nice.”  
  
  
And it'll probably make him think of home. Of being a wild-child and driving his old, church-going Grand-Mama to swear like a sailor on leave. Of running all over the neighborhood like a crazed hooligan. Getting into fights, and falling off of high places, with the fragrant, grape-y smell of kudzu just  _everywhere_.  
  
  
(A large portion of his childhood is colored in kudzu-purple, and Sickbay-white . . . hell, he knew more about medicine and hospital protocol by the time he was ten, than most people know at the end of their lifetimes. The doctors and nurses who treated him for various scrapes, breaks, and contusions often spent more time answering his dozens of rapid-fire questions than actually patching him up. By junior high, everyone but his Grand-Mama called him  _Doc_. . . .  
  
  
 _Good times,_  Bones thinks, giving in to characteristic, but rarely indulged nostalgia. But only for a few seconds.)  
  
  
“Flowers  _are_  wery pretty,” Pavel says, perking up a bit, and walking his finers up Bones's chest again, this time absent-mindedly. “Hmm. I should make mental note to tell Hikaru. He likes plants, but says he has, em . . . a black thumb. Maybe the midshipman vould be kind enough to help him.”  
  
  
“She probably would. But damnit, the man's won commendations for being an ace pilot, Starfleet security's trying to steal him to pad their own ranks--exactly how many amazing talents does he need?”  
  
  
Pavel shrugs. “Is Hikaru, so . . . all of them, I think.”  
  
  
“Huh. Just a typical Starfleet overachiever,” Bones grumbles to the overachiever cuddled up so sweetly against him. Though privately he admits he wouldn't have it any other way. Any of it. “Alright, enough post-coital chit-chat. Upsa-daisy, Pasha-baby. Night-blooming jasmine waits for no man.”  
  
  
Which causes  _Pavel_  to grumble, but eventually he lets Bones get them sat up, then stood up. As Bones drags him past the bed--ignoring the big puppy-eyes every step of the way--he tries to convince Bones it'd be more efficient if they showered  _together_ , but Bones merely gives him The Eyebrow, and sends him hence with a  _git_ , and a no-nonsense smack on the ass.  
  
  
Pavel sighs, and goes into the bathroom. Alone. And Bones sits heavily on the bed, kicking himself for being twelve kinds of self-defeating fool. But acknowledges that yes, the ability to look at himself in the mirror, if nothing else, makes shaving a lot safer and faster.  
  
  
Eventually, showered and redressed (Pavel in one of Bones's big sweaters), they step out of the CMO's quarters hand-in-hand and grinning, happily resuming their first/ twenty-seventh date.


	14. How Jim (Really) Met Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The (long) start of a beautiful friendship. Originally written for the slashthedrabble prompt “opposites", but then it exploded. Multiplied, as it were. The trouble with trabbles, you might say. . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: A prequel to the Fortune-verse, set three months after Jim joined the Academy.

Shortly after twelve hundred hours, Jim presses his finger to the scan-lock on his dorm door and at first, off on his own pleasure planet of hot alien women, hot classic cars and mellow, classic trip-hop, he doesn't even realize how long it's taking for said door to open.  
  
  
But after a minute or two, the cheerleaders have driven off in the cars, and the music's faded off into silence and Jim finds himself frowning at a door that remains stubbornly closed no matter how hard he stares.  
  
  
He doesn't even have to wonder or guess. This is the fourth damn time this week Tannis has the privacy lock on the door to their room. The one only their RA, Ensign Caudrus, can override (in theory).  
  
  
Jim neither knows, nor cares why he keeps getting locked out--it's not like the guy ever gets laid. Girls  _and_  guys avoid him like the Melvaran Plague--but he  _does_  know that if he bitches to Caudrus one more time, Tannis gets written up, and maybe,  _maybe_  Jim'll get a roommate he doesn't want to strangle in his sleep. . . .  
  
  
Yeah. And maybe he really  _will_  make officer in three years. Or why stop there, if he's gonna play The Wide Blue Sky game? Maybe he'll be a  _captain_  in three years, and rubbing elbows with the likes of Pike, and Admiral Archer, guys who are--for Starfleet brass--pretty classic, themselves.  
  
  
Maybe. A cadet can dream . . . and Jim tends to dream somewhat larger than most.  
  
  
For now though, he kicks their door once, hard, and yells: “ _Next time I see you, I'm gonna kick you right in the balls, you bed-humping vole-rat_!” Which, of course, goes unheard since the rooms are sound-proofed when the door is closed. And even if Tannis somehow heard that, it wouldn't make Jim feel any better about the situation. But actual redress'll have to wait till their Caudrus gets back from class. (Not that there's a lock made that Jim can't, with time and mental space, eventually hack. But considering some of the things Tannis is perfectly fine with doing in front of an audience. . . .   
  
  
Considering what Jim walked in on the first and only time he overrode the security-lock. . . .   
  
  
Jim shudders, and is certain he doesn't want to see whatever activities the other cadet feels compelled to do in private, and behind a security-lock.)  
  
  
In an uncharacteristically foul mood--and uncharacteristically fast--Jim glances up and down the hall. Nothing but smooth, cream-colored Academy doors and walls, with their unhelpfully helpful access consoles and neutral, abstract art-panels. Almost all the rooms on this floor are occupied, and  _most_  of them occupied by fairly cool, if somewhat eccentric, cadets.  
  
  
Ng and Barker have started a band with Johns, and Daimler called the Subspace Harmonics. Mostly they play mediocre klezmer-celtic-jazz fusion--like so many bands, lately--and have a growing following of fellow cadets and twenty-something civvies.  
  
  
Barrington-Joy III ( _”oh, even my dad calls me Three, or Beej_ ”) and Prot are joined at the hip. Always partying together--and in a few memorable instances partying with Jim--and always  _this_  close to getting bounced out of the Academy, in Three's case.  
  
  
Cardone and Lilly--two fast-talking, amusing finks who could've been separated at birth--are always holed-up in their room, challenging those unlucky enough to walk too close to their door sensor to games of Kal-Toh . . . for Mess Hall and replicator credits. Last week, they tag-teamed some poor cadet from Mundis Hall, a scrawny, big-eyed prodigy from Poland or the Ukraine, and soaked him for almost every credit he had.  
  
  
(Since the Polish-or-Ukrainian kid turned the tables on them a couple days later--won his credits back and then some--those two have barely been seen or heard from. Rumor has it they're gearing up for a rematch, but if the kid was smart enough to come out on top, Jim's sure he's smart enough to stay that way.)  
  
  
Breku and Danielewski have been sleeping together since their first night on campus, have already tied the knot in a civil ceremony, and are talking leave-of-absence-request to have some fancy, ritual Joining on Tandar Prime.  
  
  
On the other hand, Saed and T'Nor have gotten along just fine by only marginally acknowledging the others' existence. Jim'd be willing to bet credits that since they hammered out their mutual avoidance-pax, they haven't spoken a single syllable to each other.  
  
  
Seval (one of the V'tosh ka'tur, and thus  _by far_  the least annoying of the few Vulcans Jim's met to date) and Thakore-Weysmith are about to publish a paper in some obscure Academy journal together. . . .  
  
  
Everyone's got a roommate that suits them--is their complimentary opposite, or their brother-from-another-mother, or their freaking soul-mate, or whatever. All except Jim.  _Jim_  had to get the borderline wing-nut with a personality like curdled soy products.  
  
  
“It's total bullshit,” he remarks to no one, feeling lonely and vaguely unhappy. He stalks back from whence he came, pausing at Cardone and Lilly's closed (for once) door. Takes a moment for  _that_  to process--they never leave the door closed when they're in there. All the better to trap the unwary--then moves on to Three and Prot's door. Since he's temporarily room-less, he's gotta find _some_  way to occupy his time, and Three. . . .  
  
  
Three's always up for  _anything_. And Prot, well . . . is up for whatever Three is up for. At first Jim thought it was just garden-variety hero-worship and copy-catting, but now he suspects it's the l-word. Big, awful, and probably unrequited. In general, not something he has any interest in getting caught up with, however casually, but . . . when it comes to love, Bolians are neither possessive, nor melodramatic.  
  
  
When it comes to sex, they can be pleasantly uninhibited.  
  
  
Spirits a bit lifted at the prospect of a three-way--and who wouldn't be?--he presses the scan-lock. This time, he's barely pulled his thumb away before the door  _whoosh_ es open, and an unusually sober Three steps into the doorway, wearing a navy Starfleet issue t-shirt that's just barely long enough to avoid being indecent. She glances down the corridor, toward Cardone and Lilly's door, before meeting his curious gaze with round eyes so dark, he can't tell where pupil ends and iris begins.  
  
  
“Hey, Threester, if you guys are free, what say we all--”  
  
  
“ _Don't_  let those opportunistic bastards get you playing that Kal-Toh nonsense, Jimmy,” she warns almost sternly. From within their room, Prot's merry, intoxicated little giggles drift out of the cave-like darkness, along with some sort of Bolian reel reminiscent of the Beer Barrel Polka. Three makes a face, and drops her voice. “Those two con-men-in-training've gone bloody  _wobbly_ , if you ask me! Ever since that little maths-whiz scorched their arses--good on  _him_  for taking them down a peg--it's like they've got something to prove. If that something is what utter bastards they are, then, well-proven,  _I_  say. They took Ralema for a month's worth of Mess credits! A month's worth! And they know bloody well she can't afford them, either!”  
  
  
“Yikes. Not cool.” Jim frowns, notions of a three-way evaporating in an instant. Unlike the six years before Starfleet, money hasn't been a problem for him since he joined. Once George and Winona were sure he wasn't going to be drinking it away, or using it to buy assorted craft to race and destroy (along with himself, nearly), they got positively lavish with the bestowing of credits.  
  
  
Others, however, aren't so lucky as to have an indulgent older brother and guilt-ridden mother.  
  
  
Ralema Prot would be one of those, and Cardone and Lilly . . . should know better. Should have a freaking  _heart_. If the cadets on their floor are really family, like Caudrus keeps insisting, then Ralema's everyone's little sister. The one who doesn't get pranked, and who everyone would rally to protect. “This is really getting out of hand. If Caudrus won't get proactive, I'm gonna have a talk with those assholes--”  
  
  
“The hell you will, Jimmy.  _Someone_ 's gonna have a talk with them, alright, and it's gonna be  _me_.” Three scowls, and it's vaguely comical on her cute, vaguely exotic face. Though her facial ridges are almost vestigial--an inheritance from her Denobulan father, along with a smile that almost literally stretches from ear to ear--when she's angry about something, they tend to flush bright pink with alarming speed.   
  
  
But, cuteness aside, she's Jim's height, and probably one-quarter again his weight, all of it muscle. Not even halfway through their first year and she's already been bumped up to advanced defense and specialized martial arts classes. Jim's certain she'd be fast-tracked toward the Security/Rescue Ops sectors, if not for the constant partying, borderline grades, and inconsistent self-discipline.  
  
  
That she's still in the Academy at all probably has as much to do with her connections--her grandmother's friends with Admiral Archer--as her potential as a soldier.  
  
  
“Threester . . . you know that diplomacy's what's called for here, right? That you can't just  _beat_  the credits out of them, right?” Off her mulish glare, Jim crosses his arms. “Even Archer won't be able to change the Tribunal's mind if you get brought up on assault charges, on top of everything else. You'll get a dishonorable discharge.”  
  
  
“Well, maybe that'd be for the best--me not being in Starfleet. Not even sure why I signed up in the first bloody-damn place, except that Mum was so dead-set against the last Barrington-Joy taking employment as a  _mercenary thug for a busy-body government_.” She runs her hands through dark, curly, chin-length hair and tugs on it. “Once I get booted, I could just go with the flow and get into the import-export business like every Barrington-Joy for the last two hundred years. Or go live on Denobula. Stay with Gram and Dad, till I find three or four people to settle down with. . . .”  
  
  
“You could . . . but who'd look after Ralema if you did that?” Jim asks, with almost ritualized ponderousness. Three's always on the verge of dropping out, and either he or Ralema's always talking her out of it. “You know something like this'll probably happen again without someone to fend off scumbags worse than Cardone and Lilly.”  
  
  
“Mm . . . she's too bloody trusting. Even if she weren't, when they're of a mind, those two could talk Eskimos into an ice cube dinner.” Three deflates with a sigh. “You know, I had to get her uber-goobered just so she'd stop hanging herself about the credits.”  
  
  
“I am  _not_  goo . . . booger-ubered,  _Vanessa_!” Ralema calls from the darkness, and Three winces. Over her shoulder, Jim thinks he can see a pale-blue form doing an unsteady jig in time to the almost-polka.  
  
  
“ _Yes, you bloody-well are!_  Ears like a Pyrithian bat, even when she's uber-ay oobered-gay,” Three whispers, and more giggles drift out of the dark dorm room. “But at least she's opped-stay eying-cray.”  
  
  
A loud, bark of a laugh sounds over the stridently cheerful music. “Hell- _ooooo_? Cryptology focus! I may be boogered-over, but I can still ack-cray your ysterious-may ode-cay!”  
  
  
“ _Ack-cray this, bluebell: See rem tahlaa!_ ” Three calls, looking over her shoulder, and Jim smirks when a spate of vehement Bolians swears--or so Jim assumes, but it sounds like nothing so much as angry baby-talk--is the reply. Thinks that maybe Ralema should be sober less often.  
  
  
(Generally speaking, Bolians tend to be light-weights. Can, occasionally, go from tipsy-but-in-control-of-their-faculties, to intensive care in a just a few short drinks. But if anyone knows this particular Bolian's tolerance backwards and forwards, it's the Threester.)  
  
  
“So, I, uh . . . guess I'll let you get back to--what you were doing,” Jim says, seeing that Three's fickle attention is once more centered on her room, and her . . . Ralema. There may be other Kirk-Three-Prot three-ways in the future, but probably not today. “If you need any help talking Jerk and Jerkier into giving her credit's back--”   
  
  
“I've got it covered, never you fear,” Three dismisses, her scowl fading some. “Granted, Mum cut me off when I got accepted to the Academy and is  _still_  pissing lava about it. But Dad still sends me credits if I make puppy eyes at him. Even if I don't,” she adds with an ironic smile. Then shrugs. “As for Chuck and Ben, dishonorable discharge or not, if they don't play nice, they'll be taking their meals through matching straws for the next month. Simple as--”  
  
  
“You're missing the best  _paaaart_!”   
  
  
“ _Wouldn't say I was_ missing _that awful din you're listening to!_ ” Three calls, rolling her eyes again and thwapping Jim on the chest hard enough to sting. “Bloody Bolians and their so-called music--say, if I don't make it to the lecture today, you'll let me upload your notes, right?”  
  
  
“Uh, I don't take--”  
  
  
“Vanessa . . .  _Beee_ \--” a loud, giggling hiccup-- ” _Eeej_! I'm lonely! Come dance with me!”  
  
  
“Oh, well. Never make a lady ask thrice, eh?” She winks exaggeratedly, all waggly harlequin eyebrows, exclamation point eyes, and huge, mad-cap grin. She gives Jim another thwap, followed by a quick kiss that tastes like orange drink, mixed with something alcoholic. “You're a prince, Jimmy! See you tomorrow, or--whenever I see you!”  
  
  
“Yeah, later days, Threest--” but she's already gone back inside and the door slides shut on a rise in that almost polka.  
  
  
Another room Jim's locked out of, and still nearly four hours till his next class.  
  
  
Feeling keenly dissatisfied again, he lets aimless feet carry him back past Cardone and Lilly's room, and past his own. Then down the stairs four flights, to the lobby.  
  
  
By the time he's halfway across the lawn, he's feeling less put-out, and more melancholy. He's carrying his shoes and socks, his toes slipping and squeaking on the damp grass. The slightly overcast sun feels good on his head and shoulders, and the breeze is cool and salty . . . astringent, almost. Nothing like the fertile-dusty, somewhat dry breezes he grew up with. . . .  
  
  
If limitless possibility had a scent, it'd be San Francisco on a clear, clean day. Whatever else isn't quite right in his life, however much he wishes intestinal parasites on his roommate, nothing can take away his love of this city, and his tentative love of the Academy.  
  
  
Strolling across the quad, he rolls his shoulders and digs his toes into the soil as he walks, tipping a figurative hat at ladies and gentlemen alike. Soon, the worst of his melancholy is gone, and his dissatisfaction is temporarily shelved. He may as well kill the hours until his next class in the arms of any--or all; Jim's really been on an optimism-kick, lately--of the half dozen cadets he's been sleeping with on a regular basis.  
  
  
(Though he really should be doing other things, more productive things, such as reviewing for his damn History and Politics midterms. Or comm'ing George and finding out how the homestead's holding up. Or composing yet another stilted progress-report-disguised-as-a-letter for StarComm to forward to Winona, wherever she may be this tour.  
  
  
Unlike George, Jim stopped keeping track years ago.)  
  
  
Though he could just do as so many other cadets are doing on one of the last days of good weather before fall really gets its teeth in, and stake out a space on a shady piece of turf, set his PADD's music app to RANDOM, and doze or study. . . .  
  
  
It's while mulling this over this tempting, but unlikely way to spend his time, that Jim's feet carry him across the quad, to Charles Tucker Hall and his plan B . . . the lovely,  _limber_  Cadet Heller.  
  
  


*

  
  
“. . . told you I was ready to finalize the divorce  _six months ago_ , Ethan! Considering that  _you_  were the one who wanted to leave me so goddamn bad, I don't get why you won't just sign, and we can get this mess over with!”  
  
  
Jim pauses on his way past Tucker Hall's less frequently used anterior lounge. Kasey hadn't been in her room, and Kasey's roommate, an attractive, but somehow intimidating Antaran, hadn't been a plausible substitute.  
  
  
 _Off to plan C, a.k.a the Carmody Twins,_  he'd thought. Which meant trekking back across the quad to Unity Hall. And he was about to do just that--after stopping by the lounge and getting a bottle of  **Galactic Orange!** , as well as something crunchy to wash down with it--when he recognized that pissed-off, prematurely-crotchety tone. While he hasn't heard it since the day he got to San Fran, he'd be hard-pressed to forget it. It'd spent most of a shuttle flight warning him that he was about to get barfed on, or apologizing for eventually barfing on him at some point during the trip.  
  
  
The trip which was not only barf-free, but explosive-decompression-free, as well.  _Though probably not by much,_  the guy, Something-or-other-weird McCoy had muttered, glaring back at the shuttle as if it'd decided not to explode just to make him look bad.  
  
  
After they'd arrived at the dorms, they'd parted ways with vague notions to meet up in the Mess after orientation. But Jim'd met the most  _gorgeous_  cadet from Trill. . . .  
  
  
Turns out, the spots aren't the only things that go all the way down.  
  
  
 _God, I love Starfleet,_  he thinks, briefly lost in memories of playing connect-the-dots with his tongue. Then he comes back to the present--flattens himself against the wall next to entrance of the lounge, and tunes into what sounds like a seriously  _intense_ discussion. Figures he may as well get an earful, in case McCoy needs back up.  
  
  
(Jim's mostly shameless about his occasional tendency to invite himself places he may not be wanted, but he's not unselective about it.)  
  
  
“Our marriage was  _not_  a mess. Not all of it, anyway.” Different voice, also male, pitched low and throaty--like he's trying  _way_  too hard for flirty and alluring. Jim's been with a enough girls to spot that particular ploy about a mile and a half off.  
  
  
This, then, must be the Ex-Wife Jim'd heard so little, and yet so very much about between McCoy's near-retching and apologies.  
  
  
“ _Not_  a mess? Beg pardon, but what marriage were  _you_  in?” McCoy snorts, and there's silence for a few moments. It's tense enough that Jim can feel it, is uncomfortable with it, and he's not even a part of it.  
  
  
He stares at the art-panel directly across from the entrance. It's currently showing Munch's [The Scream](http://www.artsnotdead.com/PhotoDetails.asp?ShowDESC=N&ProductCode=AM00162). Oddly apt of the computer system, since whatever gets said next in that lounge isn't going to be pretty.  
  
  
“I'm seeing someone,” the Ex-Wife says, spitefulness kicking flirty allure to the curb. In the silence that follows  _that_  bomb, Jim can hear his own heart beating, slightly elevated, now. Can hear his knuckles crack as he opens and clenches his fists. Though it's been months since he got into a physical brawl, he's instantly  _ready_ , like no time has passed.  
  
  
(Suddenly, Three's belligerence on behalf of a friend makes a hell of a lot more sense.)  
  
  
The silence is finally broken when McCoy laughs. It's one of the most tired, wounded sounds Jim's ever heard, and his heart goes out to the grumpy bastard.  
  
  
 _The Ex-Wife took the whole damn planet in the divorce . . . all I've got left are m' bones,_  McCoy'd said, and  _Jim_ 'd assumed some kind of alimony mess. Now, he's got ample reason to suspect that what the Ex-Wife took was a lot more integral to McCoy's well-being than money or material things.  
  
  
Jim reckons the miserable, neurotic mess of that shuttle ride--amusing, sarcastic, and witty in a weird, Southern way--would have given every credit he had to get his old life back.  
  
  
“Okay, you've moved on.” McCoy's voice sounds like it's being issued through gritted teeth, all fake pep. “You're the more evolved man, but then you've always known that. So congrats . . . did you want applause, or shall I just stand here and eat my heart out?”  
  
  
“Jesus, Leo, why do you have to be such a fucking bastard all the time?”  
  
  
“Fresh off a goddamn separation that  _you_  pushed for, waitin' on damn tenterhooks to finalize a divorce I didn't contest because you  _asked_  me not to--tryin' to move on with  _my_  goddamn life when you sashay in here, talkin' about your new sap, and  _I'm_  the fuckin' bastard?” McCoy drawls, harsh and bitter. The art-panel cycles, incongruously, to Klee's [Fish Magic](http://www.artsnotdead.com/PhotoDetails.asp?ShowDesc=N&PhotoURL=http://www.adreprographics.com/and/klee/images/XKB23652.jpg). “Well, ain't  _that_  about a bitch!”  
  
  
Another silence so charged Jim doesn't have to see it to  _feel_  it. It's like listening to two mutes strangling each other. It's anyone's guess who'll pass out first. “I met him on the Masters tour . . . his name's Oliver,” the Ex says stiffly, almost like he wishes he hadn't said anything at all. Jim can't quite place that nasally, rounded-vowel accent . . . some kind of awful East Coast thing, too fast, too squeezed together.  
  
  
“I see. And are you telling me all this because you want me to be happy for you, or because you wanna turn me into a jealous, ranting basket-case, again?” Next on Art-Panel Classics is Basquiat's [The Doll Daze](http://thedolldaze.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/jean-michel-basquiat-picture2.jpg), which Jim's always found creepy. “Please, tell me what reaction you want, and I can give it to you. Then we can finish this damned catastrophe and you can get outta my life for keeps, this time.”  
  
  
This time, it's the Ex that sighs, and it isn't exactly brimming with vim and vigor, either. When he speaks, he sounds just as tired as McCoy. “It's not that easy for me, Leo--”  
  
  
“And every little thing about this's been shangri-la, wrapped in happy-fun candy for  _me_! Fuck's  _sake_ , Ethan,  _you_  wanted this! Wanted to be quit of me so bad, you walked all over me to get as far away as you could, and now . . . what? You want me to tell you how much I like and admire you? That we can be friends and laugh at all of this, some day?”  
  
  
“No, I--” the Ex swears under his breath. (Now the art-panel's featuring a [photo](http://www.delmar.edu/socsci/Faculty/Stone/HIST1302/images/Mapplethorpe,%20Lisa%20Lyon.jpg) that Jim doesn't recognize, but it reminds him eerily of Three. He wishes he could risk asking the computer for details on the artist and maybe get a print . . . Three and Ralema would go nuts.) “Look, I know things ended badly between us, but I didn't tell you about Oliver to hurt you, I--”  
  
  
“Even if that's true, you always did like fringe benefits,” McCoy snaps, cold and clipped--and from the silence that follows, Jim'd score that one as a direct hit. He almost cheers for the good doctor getting back some of his own back, but holds the applause when McCoy says something else almost hesitantly, too low for even a not-cheering eavesdropper to make out.  
  
  
The Ex's reply is weirdly muffled, and Jim's sure he knows why, in an intuitive leap. He risks peering around the entryway, and sees that his leap was spot-on. In the opposite corner of the lounge (cream-colored of course, and spartan, furnished with calculatedly mismatched, multicolored chairs, tables and consoles for studying or relaxing. And vending machines, which makes Jim recall his parched state), stands . . . . Leopold McCoy, looking every inch the Starfleet doctor, perfectly pressed, not a hair out of place. Clean-shaven, square-jawed, and dashing, like a darker version of Jim's dad. . . .  
  
  
Sees that in McCoy's arms--his face hidden in the space between McCoy's neck and shoulder--is a man dressed in expensive-looking, monochromatic casual wear that probably cost more than Jim's old wardrobe. He's tan in a way that's coming into style again, and sturdily built. His longish dark hair is streaked with gold and red, and worn loose.  
  
  
Most tellingly, he's all tucked in on himself, as if trying to make himself seem small and defenseless. Protectable.  
  
  
One of the oldest tricks in the book. The book that McCoy clearly neglected to read, what with him falling for said trick, hook, line, and sinker.  
  
  
 _Manipulative creep,_  Jim thinks, outraged on the hapless doctor's behalf. He figures  _someone_  ought to be.  
  
  
“Eth . . . c'mon', don't . . . y'know I hate it when you cry.”   
  
  
The Ex makes a muffled sniffling sound. “If you really did, you wouldn't be so f-fucking good at  _making_  me cry.”  
  
  
McCoy holds the Ex tighter, stroking his hair. “Hush,” he murmurs, his face partially obscured by the ex's hair. His eyes close, and he looks like a man relishing some fatal. slow-acting poison. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . . shit. You know I never say the right thing. I'm sorry . . . so this Oliver, is he treatin' you right?”  
  
  
The Ex-Wife laughs a little, and it sounds shaky and watery. He turns his face up toward McCoy's just a little. Just enough that his breath, or touch makes McCoy shiver. “Do you really care? Or would you gloat, if I said no?”  
  
  
“I'd break both his arms and put a crack in his skull the Starfleet goddamn Corps of Engineers couldn't repair . . .  _then_  I'd gloat.”  
  
  
The Ex-Wife laughs again. “Still ready to ride to my rescue, huh? Same old Leo.” That flirty composure is making a suspiciously quick come-back, and Jim knows McCoy doesn't realize he's being played like a pawn-shop mandolin.  
  
  
“Just 'cause we're . . . staring down the barrel of a divorce, that doesn't mean I wanna see you get hurt. Doesn't mean I . . . wouldn't teach this Oliver of yours some manners, if he needed teachin',” McCoy grumbles, but the grumbling isn't enough to hide _it_. Not the longing and the helplessly in-love man wrapped in that longing, no. What the grumbling does an especially poor job of hiding is McCoy's freaking  _chivalry_.  
  
  
The kind of chivalry that gets princesses--or princes--out of thousand foot towers, and away from witches' spells. The kind of chivalry Jim's been able to manufacture on occasion, but that's never come naturally to him.  
  
  
The kind of chivalry some unscrupulous, evil skank might use to manipulate the trusting and naïve soul possessed of it. . . .  
  
  
“If I even  _think_  I want Oliver to back off, he does. He's a cream-puff. The kind that'd faint if I dared him to shove me against the wall outside a random dorm room, and fuck me till my legs didn't work quite right.” The Ex-Wife leans back and looks into McCoy's eyes, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. “Nope, he's nothing like that med student that got me kicked out of Vance Hall with regards to such an incident.”  
  
  
McCoy clears his throat, but looks like he's struggling not to smile. He blushes, looking at everything in the lounge but the smirking man in his arms. “That was entirely your fault for gettin' me drunk, then eggin' me on about bein' too chickenshit to screw you in a public place.”  
  
  
“Agreed.” The Ex-Wife bites his lip almost demurely, like a man with a secret he's not sure he should divulge. Jim rolls his eyes at such an obvious, heavy-handed con. He was doing better than this when he was fifteen! McCoy's either stupid (not likely), or still too in love to realize he's being had (likelier). Or maybe . . . he's just lonely enough not to care, anymore (likeliest). “But you sure showed  _me_  . . . at least till Ernie Melman caught us--”  
  
  
“--and ratted you out to the RAs that same night.” That's good for the full smile, and there are ridiculously perfect teeth and  _dimples_ to go with it. It occurs to Jim--secure as he is in his heterosexuality--that Leopold McCoy, grumpy, neurotic Mr. All-I've-Got-Left-Are-M'-Bones, is probably a  _babe_ , as gay guys and straight girls measure these things. “You, more than anyone, know what an asshole I turn into when soused.”  
  
  
“An asshole wouldn't have moved all of my stuff into his apartment after I got kicked out of my dorm. Wouldn't have let me sponge off him till I graduated. Wouldn't have married me, and tried so hard to  _stay_  married to me.” The Ex tips McCoy's face down, until McCoy takes the hint and looks him in the eyes. “You  _can_  be a jackass, sometimes, controlling and patronizing. There were days I couldn't stand to be around you, but--”  
  
  
“Ditto, and thanks.”  
  
  
“-- _but_  I'm not blameless for what happened to us. I know I can turn 'flawed' into an art form,” the Ex talks over him to say. Then he puts his finger over McCoy's lips to keep him quiet. “Despite the way it ended, if I could do our marriage over again, I would. Differently and better, yes, but . . . yeah. Rain or shine, you've been my knight in shining armor since day one. That's . . . not something I'm ready to do without, and something I should never have given up on.”  
  
  
McCoy shakes his head, removing the Ex's hand without letting go of it. “I know you, Ethan. You  _think_  you want me back, but what you want is to not be alone. To be adored and taken care. You want that so badly, you think it doesn't matter if it's done by someone you hate being with--”  
  
  
“I don't hate you, Leo. I never have,” the Ex says softly, and it's probably not entirely a lie, but it's still no more the truth than anything else he's said so far. And maybe McCoy, besotted though he remains, senses that on some level, because he becomes, if anything, a bit grimmer. Even lets go of the Ex's hand.  
  
  
“You want something familiar--someone you know. Someone you can count on, who'll--”  
  
  
“I don't want to go through with the divorce.” The Ex slides his arms around McCoy's neck even as McCoy lets go of him. “Please, baby. I made a mistake, okay? I gave up on our marriage when the going got rough--told myself  _and_  you it didn't matter how much we loved each other if all we did was fight, but I was  _wrong_. I--“  
  
  
“This isn't kindergarten, Eth! There're no do-overs! You can't givesies backsies the fights, the separation, the  _other people you fucked_ \--and you  _damn_  sure can't erase the fact that instead of  _telling_  me you were petitioning for a divorce, you had a damn ambulance-chaser deliver the news via comm, you fucking  _coward_!” McCoy's face twists into one of the angriest expressions Jim's ever seen . . . but just for a moment. Then he takes a deep breath, and just looks sad again. And tired. “We haven't been married for over a year, so sign the agreement, and let's lay this travesty to rest.”  
  
  
The Ex's composure slips again, and what's underneath it is more unhappy and insecure than anything Jim's seen since . . . since his stepfather used to get into it with George on the rare occasions Winona was home. “If it makes you feel better to say awful things, then go ahead. I'll take whatever you need to dish out if it means you'll give us another chance--”  
  
  
“And at last, we get to the part where you turn  _you_  fucking  _me_  over, into me being a drama queen for not  _liking_  getting fucked over! That's just typical!” McCoy laughs as mirthlessly as before. “There's no  _us_  and hasn't  _been_  an  _us_  to warrant a second chance for far too long, so open your eyes!”  
  
  
“Oh, my eyes are open, alright.” The Ex lets go his strangle-hold on McCoy, and it's pathetic, really. How  _transparent_  he is. Though neither he nor McCoy likely sees it that way. “There's someone else, isn't there, you son of a  _bitch_.”  
  
  
McCoy closes his eyes for a moment, as if he's given up trying to keep the discourse reasonable. “I'll thank you to leave my late mother out of this. And my love-life? Ain't your concern, anymore, darlin'.”  
  
  
“ _Love_ -life?” More slippage, and that phony-composure is a dim memory. The gloves, it would appear, are officially off. “Is he in Starfleet, too, this . . .  _person_  who's so wonderful you're willing to throw away ten years over him?”   
  
  
“ _Nine_  years, and I  _said_  we're not havin' this discussion, Ethan! Have a safe trip back to wherever you're staying, and comm me when you're ready to be an adult,” McCoy says, starting to turn toward the exit, and Jim. But just as Jim thinks it might be wise to make himself scarce, the Ex grabs McCoy's arm and yanks him back around.  
  
  
When McCoy recovers his balance, he grabs the Ex a lot harder--clamps down on his upper arms, and there they stand, glaring, and pointlessly bruising each other.  
  
  
“I'd advise you not to try that again,” McCoy grits out, and the Ex smirks, glancing down between them.  
  
  
“Please. You can throw around empty threats to your heart's content, but you know nothing's changed between us. I still get off on being manhandled by  _you_ , and you still get off on manhandling  _me_. Whatever you have with your little Starfleet person doesn't even compare to what  _we've_  got. In fact, I'll bet he isn't getting the job done for you  _at all_ , considering how quick you just got hard.”  
  
  
While McCoy splutters indignantly, the Ex latches himself to McCoy's neck like a fashionable lamprey, kissing and sucking with professional-grade sounds of enjoyment. And McCoy, for all his bluster . . . lets him, the straight, angry line of his back relaxing, then tensing in a different way.  
  
  
Just like that, the game is lost.

_Checkmate goes to the Ex-Wife._  Jim lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It's all he can do not to drag the Ex-Wife off of Starfleet property by his over-treated hair, but what purpose would that serve? He'd only come slinking back, and eventually, McCoy'd give in. Sooner or later makes no difference, really. . . .  
  
  
He may not know McCoy well--or at all--but he knows the Ex-Wife, alright. Knows  _that kind_  of person fairly well. They're like spoiled, mean-spirited brats who can't be happy unless it's at someone else's expense--unless they're taking something away from someone.  
  
  
Getting his toy back isn't nearly as important to the Ex as taking that toy  _away from_  someone who might currently be playing with it.  
  
  
And here comes that wheedling, flirty tone. “You know what I want, Leo? I want you to fuck me right here, against this wall. It'll be just like college, again. And afterwards, I'll take you out for toffuti, and we can put this divorce nonsense to bed--”  
  
  
“You know, if you'd stuck to taking it in public places instead of talkin' my damn ear off, we'd still be married,” McCoy snaps, but his voice is unsteady. The voice of a man who's abandoning reason for the  _seriously-man-what-the-hell?_  flavor of insanity.  
  
  
“We  _are_  still married. That's how it should stay,” the Ex purrs, and McCoy makes a choking, unwillingly amused sound. A laugh taken hostage. But he doesn't resist when the Ex-Wife kisses him on the mouth, possessive and teasing, like they're playing a familiar game. And McCoy's hands are wandering the newly re-available landscape in a way that's as hurried as it is intense. Like he's aching to refresh a faded memory purely by touch.  
  
  
Jim ducks around the corner again, having reached the limits of even  _his_  shamelessness. Clearly his input would not be wanted here, and now, he's just satisfying his morbid, defeatist curiosity.  
  
  
Across from him, the art panel's moved on to a [Pollock](http://www.pollockgallery.com.au/exhibitions/200710_stephen_armstrong/Mother-&-Son.jpg) that makes Jim wish Winona had ever been mother enough for him to miss. Which makes  _this_  Pollock not worth the eye-time he's already alloted it. So he looks at his feet instead, and eavesdrops some more.  
  
  
“. . . not fucking you in this lounge.”  
  
  
“Then take me to your dorm room.”  
  
  
“I'm not fucking you  _there_ , either. We've used sex as a band-aid before, and it never works. Nothing we've ever tried works.”  
  
  
“Maybe it will, this time.” Soft kissing sounds that make Jim briefly see red.  _No one_  should get rewarded for waltzing in and out of a supposed loved one's life, bringing heart-ache and confusion like a plague.  
  
  
But the bringers of heart-ache  _do_  get rewarded, and never has the unfairness of that struck Jim as hard as it does now. Never has someone else's suffering touched him quite this keenly.  
  
  
“Don't you miss me, baby? Aren't you . . . lonely?”  
  
  
“Maybe. Sometimes,” McCoy admits quietly, in a tone that means  _yes. Often._  “But a hate-fuck in a lounge--or in my dorm room--won't make me any  _less_  lonely.”  
  
  
"You don't hate me. And we both know that whatever problems we had, we could always leave 'em at the foot of the bed, so to speak."  
  
  
"Right where we'd trip over 'em, later," McCoy says bitterly, but he's  _totally_  caving. Jim wants nothing more than to go in there and knock some sense into him . . . but it's not like they know each other. Not really. It's not like McCoy would even listen to him. And anyway. . . .  
  
  
It's simply none of his business who McCoy fucks. Never mind that Jim knows like he has a time machine that McCoy'll wind up regretting even a last, quick hate-fuck from the bottom of his too-soft heart. That if McCoy gives in to the Ex-Wife (however sincere said Ex-Wife is trying to be, or thinks he is, about repairing their marriage), he's giving a human viper even more to destroy and derail. Namely McCoy's place in Starfleet and what's no doubt a promising career.  
  
  
To Jim, even just three months in, leaving Starfleet is unimaginable. He may chafe under the rules occasionally, but at least they make  _sense_. They may not always be exactly fair, but they try to be, and  _try_  can count for quite a lot, in Jim's book. If Starfleet was ever taken away from him . . . well, he wouldn't have a haven left to run to. He'd be adrift again, in a life with no purpose or point, with no one he really trusted, and no one he'd  _want_  to trust.  
  
  
He wouldn't wish that feeling on a Romulan he didn't like, let alone Leopold McCoy. There's no way he can, in good conscience, let this continue. He has to stop it pretty damn quick, and pretty damn effectively, in such a way that even a love-fool like McCoy can't undo it.  
  
  
In a way the most deluded head-case of an Ex couldn't  _possibly_  overlook--a way that said head-case has already handed Jim, gift-wrapped in shiny paper and tied with a big, red bow. . . .  
  
  
 _This isn't the best idea there ever was,_  Jim acknowledges to himself, straightening his uniform and running a hand through his hair to make sure it's still spiky and awesome. It is, of course.  
  
  
Every man should fight his own battles . . . but McCoy seems to be doing a really shit job of fighting this one. For all that he's a bigger and older boy than Jim, he's still not quite as hip to the ways of the world. Seems to be a soft-hearted romantic in a way Jim never has been and never will be. . . .  
  
  
Can be hurt in ways Jim never has been, and never intends to be.  
  
  
So, while he's no one's knight in shining armor, a damsel in distress is a damsel in distress, and . . . Jim can't just leave this particular damsel to his own self-destructive devices.  
  
  
 _You_ so _owe me, Leopold_. Jim turns on his best sexy-smile and strides into the lounge like he owns it.  
  
  
“ _There_  you are!” Arms wide open, he makes for the startled doctor and his equally startled ex. They're still in each others' arms, the Ex-Wife's hands bunched in McCoy's jacket at shoulder and bicep. McCoy's hands are on the ex's ass, but haven't ventured down the back of his trousers.  _Yet_.  
  
  
(Unlike the Ex-Wife, Jim's always had  _excellent_  timing.)  
  
  
McCoy lets go of his Ex as if the guy suddenly caught fire, and takes a step back, something like relief on his face. Something like recognition, too, which certainly bodes well for the odds of pulling this charade off. “Uh . . .  _Jim?_ ” he asks, squinting as if he's not sure he's got the right name attached to the right person. The Ex's confused, annoyed gaze swings from Jim to McCoy so fast, his eyeballs should have whiplash.  
  
  
Flashing his own dimples, Jim gets right in McCoy's personal space--shouldering the Ex-Wife aside to do so--and slides his arms around McCoy's waist, the better to get extra, hey-is-that-a-phase-rifle-in-your-trousers-or-are-you-just- _really_ -happy-to see-me? close.  
  
  
Wary dark eyes meet Jim's . . .  _this is some kinda goddamn joke, right?_  they seem to say. And before McCoy's mouth can echo that question and ruin everything, Jim's closing his eyes and kissing a man he barely knows. Not for the first time, or even the second, but then . . . Jim's done a lot of crazy things when he's drunk.  
  
  
Never while sober, though. Not  _this_ , anyway. And it's  _nothing_  like kissing a girl. There's stubble, for one thing, and more tongue (not  _gross_  amounts of tongue, just  _more_ ). And McCoy isn't melting in his arms, even for show. No, sir. There's a freaking  _phase-rifle_  poking Jim in the abdomen, oxygen's already at a premium, and there's  _nothing_  about McCoy or this kiss that's melting or soft or familiar.  
  
  
“Hey!” The startled squawk from behind Jim is followed by a very insistent hand on his shoulder, but he ignores it. Really kisses McCoy for all he's worth, making sure the kiss continues to be four very important, jealousy-creating things: deep, showy, possessive, and  _dirty_. The sort of kiss that'd seen Jim's lights put out with  _extreme_  prejudice in the past, and probably would  _now_ , if the Ex-Wife had any spine at all.  
  
  
 _Okay, so far, so good. McCoy's playing along--maybe a little too well,_  he acknowledges, and yeah. Those hands on his ass? Are McCoy's, and Jim's being bent back like some dame from a silver-screen oldie. Is possibly even starting to get hard himself. . . .  
  
  
 _That's enough show, time for some tell! Abort! Abort!_  
  
  
With some effort ( _rather a lot of effort_ ; McCoy doesn't want to play ball now that the kissing phase of The Plan is about to end) Jim breaks the kiss and looks into McCoy's eyes. Tells himself he doesn't find what he sees there, coupled with the phase-rifle all but demanding his compliance, as intriguing as it is flat-out intimidating. "Uh . . . miss me . . . Leo?"  
  
  
McCoy blinks and licks his lips. Shakes his head as trying to wake himself up, then goes back to staring at Jim's mouth. “I--uh-- _what_?”  
  
  
“'Cause I missed  _you_ , and I want you in my bed and out of this uniform  _right now_ , soldier.  _Triple-time_ ,” he finishes in his stagiest, yet sexiest murmur. Still McCoy simply stares at Jim's mouth, like he's thinking about kissing Jim again, and Jim--could kick him.  
  
  
 _Not too quick on the uptake,_  he thinks as McCoy, predictably, kisses him again. And  _thoroughly_ , as if making sure everything he remembered from the first kiss is still in the same place.  _I may have created a whole new set of problems._  
  
  
Jim lets this kiss go on for about half a minute before ending it with a flourish. "Just play along, stud," he whispers on the doctor's lips, then raises his voice back into the sexy stage-murmur. "I was waiting for you, and I got bored. What's the hold-up?"  
  
  
"The  _hold-up_  would be me.  _Hi_.” The Ex-Wife says with stilted, smarmy sweetness. Jim takes most of a minute to stare into McCoy's eyes like a man who can't be torn away, then finally looks over his shoulder and finds there's a stilted, smary smile to match that tone.  
  
  
 _Well. He's not hideous,_  Jim supposes, quite charitably.  _Some might even say attractive, in a second-tier holo-villain way. Like the sort of actor who's always type-cast as someone's evil brother Laszlo._  
  
  
“I don't believe we've met, Mr.--?" the Ex trails off, all fake-nice and clipped, manicured hand held out for shaking, Jim can only assume. Ignoring the hand, he smiles lazily, eyes half-lidded and disdainful; the pointedly fake-interested look of a man who's being kept from the most spectacular fuck of his life by a persistent nuisance.  
  
  
"The name's Kirk--James Tiberius Kirk. Sorry,  _sir_ , didn't see ya there."  
  
  
One dark, perfectly-shaped eyebrow quirks delicately, and the ex's lips purse in infinitely condescending, yet graciously forgiving disapproval. He gives Jim an obvious once over that finds him lacking. "Apparently you didn't. I'm Eth--"  
  
  
"Mm, I didn't actually ask." Jim turns his attention back to McCoy, who's gaping now, and likely mirroring the face of his Ex. " _You_ , Dr. Sex God, need to wrap up the chit-chat, and get back up to my room. I've got Galactic Economics from sixteen hundred, till twenty-two hundred hours. So I'm gonna need memories of a McCoy-style nooner to get me through. 'Kay?"  
  
  
"Right. . . ." McCoy looks horrified--but still turned-on--and confused. At least he does until the penny behind his eyes finally drops. Then he smiles a big, wooden smile that probably doesn't pass muster. “Thanks. Um . . . sweetie.”  
  
  
 _Well, that's something, at least_. Jim cups McCoy's face in his hands. "Glad we're finally on the same page, stud-muffin. Five minutes, my room. And don't leave me waiting again."  
  
  
One last kiss to make his point to the Ex--this time, McCoy's a lot more restrained, and there's almost no tongue . . .  _almost_ \--and Jim strides away like he owns the whole damn galaxy. Pauses at the huge vending machine near the door, thumbs the scanner, and selects a  **Galactic Orange! The Orangiest!**  and a  **SUPER MOOOONSTER PEANUT-CLUSTER CRUNCH! NOW WITH MOOOONSTER ALMONDS!!!**  
  
  
“Damn right, now with monster almonds,” Jim agrees, tearing open the bio-plastene bag with his teeth and tipping a cluster into his mouth. In the still-stunned silence, the crunch is, indeed,  _monster_.  
  
  
Smirking, and without so much as a backward glance at McCoy or the Ex-Wife, James Tiberius Kirk exits the lounge.  
  


*

  
  
"You'll be pleased to know that you're my . . . 'slutty, jailbait little hot-ass boy-toy.'"  
  
  
Jim shakes himself awake, somewhat disoriented, to find himself sitting on the floor, blinking up at a very annoyed-looking man, who's glaring down at him, arms stubbornly akimbo. Then he remembers: Tucker Hall, McCoy, the Ex, the  _kisses_ \--oh, and Ensign Dufresne. . . .  
  
  
Then parking his ass at McCoy's door because he just  _had_  to know what happened.  
  
  
Jim's yawn turns into his best smile. " _Nice_. I'd have preferred 'slutty, jailbait little hot-ass  _man-whore_ ,' but I'm kinda new to the whole guy-on-guy-on-guy love triangle thing. Curious, though: in our fictional gay relationship, do I top?”  
  
  
“If you have to  _ask_  . . . the answer's no.”  
  
  
“Damn. Tell me I'm at least a really take-charge,  _dominant_  bottom. . . ?” McCoy gives him such a heated and speculative look, Jim very nearly blushes. “Uh . . . yes, no, maybe so?”  
  
  
“That's a whole wheel-barrow of no, kid.” McCoy says, holding his look, and the ridiculous arms-akimbo posture for a few more seconds before leaning against the wall across from Jim, who takes out his PADD to check the time . . . still another hour till his class. "Sorry. Some people are just born to bottom."   
  
  
“Well, if  _that_ 's how you feel, I think we should start seeing other people.”  
  
  
“I dunno how I'll pick up the pieces after you're gone, but I suppose it's for the best.” McCoy laughs, brief and tired-sounding. Slumps down the wall till he's sitting on his heels, arms dangling between his knees. He looks at the floor between his feet like the answers to life, the universe, and  _everything_  are there. . . .  
  
  
“42,” Jim says, and McCoy smiles a little.  _Almost_  laughs.  
  
  
“I'm still torn between huggin' you and sluggin' you for what you did back there. But I'm leanin' toward the former, so I guess I should say . . . thanks."   
  
  
"Anytime. Did he sign the divorce papers?"  
  
  
“Are you always this nosy? Or am I just lucky, today?” McCoy asks, running a hand over his hair. There are so many emotions on his face and in his eyes, Jim couldn't begin to catalog them all. But the one that stands out most is a kind of numb-looking devastation, and before Jim can second guess himself (not that he ever does, and he's been told he gets that from both his father _and_  his mother), he's shifting from his side of the hallway to McCoy's. Nudging the other man with his shoulder, since he senses slinging an arm around him would  _not_  go over well.  
  
  
“I'm not being nosy, I'm just trying to find out if we're gonna have to chase your Ex down and make out in front of him some more.”  
  
  
“Oh, you're hilarious, Cadet . . . you're also manipulative, impulsive, and you  _clearly_  have lack-of-boundaries issues. I don't  _like_ those personality traits,” McCoy says tersely. Then cracks an angry smile. It looks like a grimace, but not quite as miserable. “Hell, I just  _divorced_  those personality traits.”  
  
  
“So he  _did_  sign!” Jim grins, proud of himself and of McCoy for sticking to his guns. They're a regular Butch and Sundance. “Congratulations. Your Ex was a shitheels.”   
  
  
McCoy makes another sour face from a seemingly inexhaustible arsenal-- _a lemon-face_ , George might've called it, once upon a time. "He wasn't always like . . . what you stepped in on. At least, he wasn't always like that  _all the time_. When he and I first got together, he was sweet and funny. God, could he make me laugh . . . till every muscle in my face hurt. And I'm  _not_  much of a laugher.”  
  
  
 _Shocker,_  Jim thinks, though McCoy strikes him as some who'd have a  _terrific_  sense of humor, if he'd let himself.  
  
  
“He was so passionate about  _everything_ , and clever. He could verbally take the hide off any ten people at a moment's notice. You know, the night I met him, he'd managed to do just that? Pissed off his drunk boyfriend, and literally a barful of his drunk boyfriend's drunk friends. Told 'em all where they could get off and stormed out in the middle of the night. In the middle of nowhere. Christ, he was  _amazing_.“ McCoy smiles, lost in memories that are obviously still close to his heart. “I had to go after him, if only because he reminded me of a mouthy, no-nonsense, old-style heroine, like Katherine Hepburn--uh, you know who that is, right?”  
  
  
Jim makes his most innocent, wide-eyed face. “You mean Kaytee Hepburn, that redhead from  _Mirror Ball of Death 17: Blood's Reflection_? The one that kept screaming: 'There's death on my face! There's death on my face!' in all the trailers. . . ?”  
  
  
Oh, if looks could kill.  
  
  
“It might surprise you to know there was another actress named Katherine Hepburn,” McCoy says tightly, genuinely looking like he wants nothing more than to wring Jim's neck. “She was never in such  _illustrious_  films as the Mirror Ball franchise, but she won some obscure awards, had a small cult following . . . you're an asshole,” he says, when Jim can't hold in his laughter anymore.  
  
  
“Ah, tell me something  _else_  I don't know, Spencer Tracy.” He elbows McCoy in the side. “Anyway. Your Ex has more of a  _Mommy Dearest_ -Joan Crawford vibe, than Katherine Hepburn.”   
  
  
“ _Now_  he does. And that was my initial point,” McCoy enunciates, “was that the Ethan you met today, isn't the man I married.  _This_ Ethan, he's. . . ."  
  
  
“Thirty percent prima donna, and seventy percent grade-a cocksucker? And not just in the good way?"  
  
  
"Look, I get that you're tryin' to stand in my corner--and I appreciate it, after a fashion," McCoy acknowledges in a resigned, almost familiar way that makes Jim feel as if they've known each other all their lives, only somehow managed to misplace their memories of each other. “But he and I just officially stopped being married less than two hours ago. I'm sure there'll be a day when I'll happily call him all kinds of shitheels and cocksucker, but that day ain't  _to_ day, so ix-nay on the ames-nay.”  
  
  
“Whatever you ant-way,” Jim agrees, and means it, suddenly excited for some reason he can't quite put a name to. He makes a mental note to not call the Ex-Wife any names McCoy's hasn't called him first. Including 'Mommy Dearest.' There's no sense in ending a potential friendship prematurely. Especially since Jim  _doesn't_  have many close friends . . . or possibly  _any_  close friends, despite being immensely popular  _and_  singularly awesome.  
  
  
There's no sense driving McCoy away over an asshole that may as well have fallen of the face of the Earth, for all Jim cares.  
  
  
McCoy hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “So . . . what'd you do, hack StarCadNet to find out where my room is?”  
  
  
“Actually, I hacked your RA, if you know what I mean--” a significant pause here, and McCoy's eyebrows draw together in disapproval. “I told the lovely Ensign Dufresne I was your lab partner and that I forgot which room you were in. Ah, Doc . . . she was such a  _good_  Samaritan. . . .”  
  
  
“Jesus.” McCoy rubs expressive, but tired dark eyes, and stands up. Jim scrambles to his feet, too. “You're incredible.”  
  
  
“Well, yeah. But I'm thinking you don't mean it in the same way most people do.”  
  
  
“No, I don't.”  
  
  
“Wow . . . then how  _do_  you mean it?”  
  
  
“Well, for starters--” McCoy stops himself, making an odd hand-washing gesture. Then he presses his thumb to his scan-lock and the door Jim'd been leaning against opens. “Never mind. I don't have the energy or patience it'd take to even  _begin_  the process of civilizin' you. So thank you again for the assist, but run along, sport. Before the love of my life comes back to claw those pretty blue eyes of yours out.”  
  
  
Having issued this directive, McCoy marches inside, scowl firmly affixed to face. He stops dead-center of the room, and is limned in bright, overcast light: a tallish, broad-shouldered guy, with said shoulders slumped under the weight of the world.  
  
  
The door starts to shut between them, and that, it would seem, is all, folks . . .  _friendship over_ , before it ever had a chance to begin. . . .  
  
  
Except that Jim darts into the room, just missing the leading edge of the door. Watches McCoy stand in the center of his dorm room for a minute, lost in his own thoughts as he unbuttons his uniform jacket. He takes it off and tosses it on the bed that's nearest the door and indifferently made, bordering on messy. (The other bed, pushed into the opposing angle of the room, is very neatly made, but surrounded by empty bottles of what looks like . . . steak-sauce. Jim can empathize. Anything to cover up the weird, vegetable-taste of the mock-beef Starfleet dishes up.)  
  
  
The slightly rumpled black turtleneck that was underneath the jacket gets the same surprisingly cavalier treatment, and . . . huh. McCoy is in better-than-good shape, for a man who spends his days in sickbays and labs, prodding sick people and corpses.  
  
  
“You know, you're really toned,” Jim notes, by way of announcing his presence before McCoy starts doing any of the embarrassing things one generally waits till one is alone to do. Like jerk off, or cry. Yeesh, or  _both._  
  
  
Jim'd learned the hard way to not hack and override the security-lock Tannis puts on their door.  
  
  
“Jesus Christ on a May-Day float!” McCoy exclaims, whirling around, bug-eyed and startled. “Didn't I leave you out in the hall, Cadet Kirk? What're you tryin' t'do, scare ten years off my life?”  
  
  
“Nah. But seriously,” Jim waves his hand in McCoy's direction a tad jealously. Oh, he's not in  _awful_  shape, but he's not in great shape, either. Instead of gaining the freshman fifteen, he's lost it, and then some--is now slim bordering on stringy. But McCoy has somehow managed to avoid that. Talk about unfair. “What's with the gym-bod? Where the hell do you get the time?”  
  
  
“I  _make_  the time. A good workout is the best stress relief to be had, these days.” McCoy leans against his desk with an offended huff, watching Jim like he expects him to start pocketing non-existent silverware.  
  
  
“That's  _one_  man's opinion.” Jim grins and waggles his eyebrows in a way that'd make Three proud. “I prefer to relieve stress in other ways.”  
  
  
“Why am I not surprised?” McCoy sighs again--he does that a  _lot_ \--but seems a little amused. “And I'll have you know, that compared to the rest of the McCoy clan, I'm middlin' to scrawny. Most of my cousins are built like Sherman goddamn tanks.”   
  
  
Jim pictures ten or twelve of McCoy, only huge and muscular in that body-augment way that was the rage when Jim was a teenager. Which in turn, makes him snicker. He saunters to the rumpled bed and sits down, ignoring the huffy way McCoy's eyes narrow. “I guess the Hatfields never stood a chance against you gu— _yiiy_!” Jim's ass hits something hard, and he goes sliding off the front of the bed, taking the messy comforter with him. An empty bottle of steak-sauce lands on the floor next to him. “The _fuck_?!”  
  
  
“Ah, Christ!” McCoy's across the room and offering Jim his hand so fast, it makes Jim reconsider the validity of the spontaneous wormhole theory, which he'd previously thought was a load of bunkum. Then he's being helped to his feet and steadied by a chagrined and apologetic Dr. McCoy. “Sorry, Cadet, my roommate's kinda . . . insane.” McCoy kicks the offending bottle toward the other neater, bottle-besieged bed, and doesn't meet Jim's eyes. “His idea of decorating can look like dangerous slovenliness, to the untrained eye.”  
  
  
“He, um, sounds like a swell guy.”  
  
  
“Oh, he is . . . I'm just waitin' for the swelling to go down.”  
  
  
When Jim laughs, McCoy cracks that almost-smile, and looks him in the eye as if he's gearing up to say something. And that's when it hits Jim in a flash so blinding and perfect, to even question it would be blasphemy. He trusts his instincts without reservation. Especially when it comes to people. “Whoa--stop the presses, Leopold: I'm having a brainstorm!”  
  
  
“It's Leonard. And what a shame I've misplaced my umbrella,” McCoy says, irony dripping from every word.  
  
  
“Haha, funny man. Look, I'm about to get rid of my current, crazy-ass roommate, and since  _your_  roommate is also on board the U.S.S. Psychotown, I was thinking maybe--”  
  
  
“Think again!” McCoy lets go of Jim's arms--Jim hadn't even noticed he was still being held--and backs away, making a no-fly-zone gesture like his life depends on it. “Mere language cannot convey what a monumentally  _bad_  idea having you as a roommate would be!”  
  
  
Jim makes another cautious attempt to sit on McCoy's bed and, attempt successful, he grins winningly. “Ah, you didn't let me finish. You don't even know what I was gonna say.”  
  
  
McCoy's eyes him disbelievingly, but sweeps his hand out in a grand  _do continue_  gesture.  
  
  
“So. I was thinking . . .  _you_  should be  _my_  roommate. Hear me out.” And before McCoy can reiterate his previous statement, Jim forges ahead, making puppy eyes of his own. They'd always worked on George, though not so much on Winona, who had a tendency to never look Jim in the face as he got older. "You wouldn't  _believe_  how fucked up my roommate is. I'm trying to unload him, and it seems like you'd wanna unload yours. . . ."  
  
  
McCoy crosses his arms again, plastering another big, wooden smile on his face. "Well, why on Earth would you think that? Just because Jonah chugs barbecue sauce straight from bottles--which he then leaves laying around, uncapped--twenty-four/ seven, and listens to goddamn sitar music while I'm tryin' to study? Who'd wanna switch out of a room with all that character and excitement! Not me, I tell ya! Thanks for the offer, though, and you have yourself a nice day!"  
  
  
“Barbecue sauce? Sitar music? I've got that beat.” Jim ignores McCoy's unsubtle hint, leans back on the bed--bemusedly noting the way McCoy's eyes widen and very briefly lose focus--and delivers the coup de grace that's won various  _my-roommate-sucks-worse-than-your-roommate_  contests. “ _My_  roommate frequently security-locks me out of our room to whip the ol' weasel while he weeps like a little girl. And, I heard that once, he kicked a seagull that'd landed on Admiral Archer's statue--”  
  
  
"Wait--Tannis Eijkelenbom?  _That_  kid's your roommate?" The doctor looks surprised, and genuinely perturbed. Whether over the weasel-whipping, the poor, injured seagull or just on general principle, Jim can't tell. But he plays it to his advantage.  
  
  
"He's my roommate. All day, every day. You can see why I'm in the market for another person to be occasionally unconscious and defenseless around."   
  
  
"Oh, I can see . . . and you don't even know the half of what's wrong with that boy. How he made it past Academy Eval, I'll never know," McCoy says unhappily, biting his lip like a man facing a moral (or likely ethical, as in  _doctor-patient ethics_ ) dilemma. Then he shrugs. "Sucks to be you, I'm sure. I'm also sure if you go to Residence Life, and explain the situation--that you're roomin' with a goddamn lunatic, and could they please put a stop to that, pronto?--they'll put you in another room. I'm sure there're a hundred other cadets on campus looking to switch out roommates. And you seem . . . nice enough, in your own strange way. I'm sure someone else--"  
  
  
"But I don't  _want_  someone else, I want  _you_." At McCoy's pained look, Jim clears his throat. "Okay, I didn't mean like  _that_ , just that--I don't believe in no-win scenarios, Leonard.”  
  
  
McCoy throws his hands up. “Well, you'd better start now. Aside from the fact that, judging by the little I've seen of your personality, you'd drive me batshit-insane in a matter of weeks, I find myself . . . attracted to you. Which, as you can surely imagine, is not an optimal livin' situation for either of us!”  
  
  
Jim's eyebrows shoot up. “Why? Were you planning on molesting me in my sleep, or something?”  
  
  
“ _No!_ ” Jim's beginning to suspect 'highly agitated' is McCoy's natural state. He wonders if it's always been, or if that's another thing to be laid at the Ex-Wife's doorstep. “Cadet Kirk.  _Jim_. You're obviously a smart kid. Can you for a moment imagine having a really pretty woman as a roommate, only she's not attracted to you, and never will be? Meanwhile you . . . you're  _powerfully_  attracted to her, and that's something that ain't likely to change. Imagine living in that situation for months and months. Or even a few years. Does that sound like goddamn  _fun_  to you?”  
  
  
“Actually . . . wait, are you saying you think I'm really pretty?” Jim playfully flashes the dimples, and McCoy looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. A scary vein at his temple actually starts to throb, and Jim's no doctor, but he figures that can't be a good sign. “Hey, look, Leonard, I was just being an ass, I'm sorry. But I think you're blowing this whole attraction to me outta proportion because we sucked a little face. And it was hot, I won't lie. But once you've lived with me for a couple of weeks, I can  _guarantee_ you won't be attracted to me anymore! Which isn't to say that I'm a crappy roommate, quite the opposite!” Jim begins ticking off his selling points at Warp Factor 4. “I'm quiet when I'm home--which I rarely am. I'm not sloppy, and I hate barbecue sauce. I don't have a lot of stuff. I don't 'borrow' other people's stuff. I'm trustworthy. I don't care if you bring guys back to the room to spend the night--again, not in the room that often--and I think, most of all, that we could be really great friends. Plus--”  
  
  
“Enough!” McCoy grabs his turtleneck and pulls it on (backwards and inside out), then his jacket and marches toward the door, swearing at it when it doesn't open as fast as he'd like. “I can see I won't even be left in peace in my own room! If Jonah comes back before you leave, you can tell him to keep his goddamn bottles off my goddamn bed or I'll smother him in his goddamn sleep with his own goddamn pillow!”  
  
  
In the silence that falls in the wake of McCoy's dramatic exit, Jim shrugs and sprawls back on the bed. Grins up at the ceiling panels and, despite the distinct, lingering barbecue-y smell that's starting to get on his nerves, he's pretty damn content. After all. . . .   
  
  
“He still hasn't said no. An indispensable word when shooting down a bad idea,” he tells the ceiling panels. The panels hold their peace, but Jim can tell they totally agree with him, and like his odds for having a new roomie within the week.   
  
  
It's this optimistic view that allows him, at last, to envision a life with no Tannis in it. No squirrelly, scary little guy muttering to himself in distracted Swedish, or whatever. No wackadoo logarithms marching up and down the walls, only to be erased hours later. No wintry eyes always watching Jim as if they'd be happy to see him slowly drawn and quartered.  
  
  
No boring-ass Andorian flicks--complete with with brawny, intense, boring-ass Andorians standing around looking constipated and blue, in every sense of the word--played ad nauseum and ad infinitum at all hours.  _No black-market Klingon operas_  played at top volume till Jim knows more about Kahless than his Galactic History professor.  
  
  
No more silly, pathetic  _loneliness_. Not once he's got a McCoy installed in his room. Installed in his  _life. His_  Leo. Lenny. Len. No-- _Bones_. Just Jim 'n' Bones, chilling in the room, or hanging out on campus and in greater San Francisco. Making friends and being each other's wingmen since it's not like they'd ever be bird-dogging the others' potential hook-ups, or cock-blocking. . . .  
  
  
“And most importantly, we'll have adventures . . . shit-tons of shenanigans, hijinks, and adventures.” Jim yawns, pleased that once again, he and the ceiling panels are of like minds.  
  
  
He dozes off in the midst of brightly-colored daydreams: he and Bones tooling around in the  _hottest_  low-rider, the  _hottest_  of hot alien babes--female  _and_  male--in the back seat, and a funky, Bolian Polka playing them all off into the sunset.  
  
  
It's  _totally_  freaking classic.

 


	15. To Offer War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from Taming of The Shrew 5.2, "I am asham'd that women are so simple/ To offer war where they should kneel for peace." Written for the slashthedrabble prompt, “brand”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Part of the Fortune-verse. Set in Bones's junior year in high school.

“You're joking, right?” Keev shakes his head, pretty sure he's heard wrong.  
  
  
From the look on Leo's face--huffy, haughty,  _adamant_ \--he suspects he hasn't.  
  
  
Beyond actual words, for a few moments Keev can only feast his eyes on long, well-defined muscles and sleek skin he may not get to do more  _than_  stare at, tonight. Even clothed, Leo's a hot, wet mess of sin, but sprawled unself-consciously in Keev's bed like this--  
  
  
\--pissy, nervous, and impossibly endearing  _like this_ \--  
  
  
Glaring, now . . . uncertain, and still gorgeously, flatteringly  _hard_ , he is. . . .  
  
  
“Why would I be jokin', sugar-dumplin'?” Leo demands, dark eyes narrowed dangerously, and the last thing Keev wants tonight, of all nights, is an argument. He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling every missed hour of sleep keenly. He tries to remember the last time he got more than three hours of rest at one time, and can't.  
  
  
(Sophomore year at Chapel Hill has been grueling, even aside from the fact that he spends what free time he has shuttling to-and-from Tel-Aviv to see his family or--increasingly--to Nowhere, Georgia, to see his boyfriend. His sexy, funny, chronically moody boyfriend . . . whose unique way of saying  _hello_  can include tackling and pinning Keev, kissing him breathless then blowing him mindless.  
  
  
Sighing, Keev knows full well he'd put up with a hell of a lot more than sleep-deprivation to be the guy Leo McCoy cock-teases.) “Because saying you won't let me fuck you because the brand of lube I bought isn't good enough is . . . the funniest thing I've heard all year.”  
  
  
Leo looks a little lost, then a lot defensive. But only for a moment. Then he's smiling, crooked and sheepish. “I didn't mean I wouldn't  _let you_  . . . I just--” he grabs his discarded jeans, digs in the right front pocket, and comes out with a tube of fancy, pricey looking slick. “--I brought my own.”  
  
  
He flicks the cap off, single-handedly, and crooks his finger with the other.  
  
  
For the next little while there's no talking, only the wet sounds of ardent kisses and the slippery  _whist_  of lubricated skin on lubricated skin. Then Leo's wanton moans as Keev stretches him carefully, slowly, savoring every soft, stuttered whisper of his name.  
  
  
Sure, the evening started off inauspiciously--Leo got into a snarking match with a woman selling roses outside the grill, then into a glaring match with Keev when Keev bought him a rose,  _then_  he nearly stormed off when Keev mentioned he might order steak--but Keev's going to make sure Leo's first time is absolutely perfect. That--  
  
  
“Keev,” Leo breathes, all sultry bedroom eyes and challenging half-smile. “I'm not made of rice-paper, stud. Get  _in_  me.  _Now_.”  
  
  
“Okay, yeah . . . you should turn--”  
  
  
“No, I should  _not_. If you think there's even a goddamn chance of us doin' this any other way than face-to-face, buster, then you'd best just climb right the hell off me, 'cause-- _lordjesuschrist!_ ” Leo's rant tapers off, his eyes going wide as Keev thrusts past the first ring of muscle. Then he's glaring again.  
  
  
“Well, who told ya to  _stop_?”  
  
  
Keev grins.  
  
  
 _Absolutely. Perfect._


	16. Happily Ever After (Now and Then)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for vinniebatman . . . just a little more detail. Very little. Title from Jimmy Buffett's Happily Ever After (Now And Then).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Part of the Fortune-verse. Set in Bones's junior year in high school. Sexual situation involving a minor.

_The_  morning after, and Leo McCoy can't stop grinning at the ceiling.  
  
  
Hell, even when Keev starts to snore real loud, Leo can't bring himself to elbow the man into silence or wakefulness. Can't bring himself to be annoyed. He's too  _buoyant_. Probably glowing, too.  
  
  
Well. He  _feels_  like he should be glowing, anyway. He's tired, achy, sore, and wondrously, insanely, unbearably, unbelievably _happy_. Not to mention  _boneless_ , a term that normally only calls to mind gross things like pudding (which Leo hates) and jello (which he hates even more). But his bones, though still present, don't  _feel_  as if they are. Like he's made of nothing more solid than euphoric, buzzing energy.  
  
  
Last night, he'd crashed after coming several times in fairly rapid succession (Keev has stamina like a man with something to prove), and harder than he'd ever done before. Slept like the dead until he'd woken up just after dawn, hard, and with Keev's hand between his legs. Keev nuzzling and kissing his nape. Keev's insistent morning wood poking him in the ass.  
  
  
“Leo--can I--?”  
  
  
“Yeah, baby . . . yeah, do it. . . .”  
  
  
He was, of course, feeling far too generous to bitch or object to being arranged  _just so_ \--ass up in the air, feeling at least as idiotic as he probably looked--then Keev was in him, brick-thick, focused, and  _relentless_. Telling him in whispered detail just how tight and hot and  _absolutely perfect_  he was, the bed creaking under their shifting weight and rocking motion.  
  
  
Leo had come in his own hand, desperate gibberish falling from his lips even as the entire world went  _Away_. . . .  
  
  
By the time his brain had returned from what must've surely be the happiest place on Earth, Keev was gently cleaning him up with a damp washcloth. Each swipe should've been grating and uncomfortable on over-sensitized skin, but . . . well, Keev knows just how to touch him. How to take care of him.  
  
  
“You're such a good boyfriend,” Leo'd murmured sleepily, and Keev had kissed his collarbone.  
  
  
“Only because I love you,” he'd said, smiling and pressing another kiss to Leo's chin. And Leo was already drifting off to another Place. Different from, but just as nice as the Happy Place.  
  
  
Dreamless and deep.  
  
  
Now, in the diffuse light of an overcast day, as he watches Keev sleep, he doesn't know what to make of either declaration. He feels unusually confused, and Keev looks so young, and vulnerable, his face relaxed in a way Leo never gets to see. The faint darkish circles around his eyes, from too little sleep, are glossed over by the forgiving dawn-light. Dark, grown out curls that Keev never has time to get trimmed over-run his forehead and Leo combs them back with his fingers, just to watch them spring back to their customary place.  
  
  
 _Do you really love me? Do I love_  you? Leo wants to wake him and ask. Though he'd never admit it, he thinks the world of Keev--not just his character, but his  _mind_. He's pretty sure that Keev's about the smartest person he's ever met, and would definitely know if this love-thing is mutual.  
  
  
Leo thinks it must be. That what's between them maybe ain't marrying-serious, but neither is it letter jacket kids' stuff, either. Though that latter's the only experience Leo has to go on.  
  
  
(He thinks if he offered it, though, Keev'd probably wear his letter jacket.  
  
  
He  _thinks_.)  
  
  
“Keev . . . would you wanna wear my letter jacket?”  
  
  
Keev snorts something that sounds like  _Zapruder_ , then rolls onto his side facing away from Leo, who rolls onto his back and pouts.  
  
  
He crosses his arms and glares up at the ceiling until Keev's snoring threatens to drive him ape-shit. He wants nothing more than to shake Keev awake and demand to know how he can  _possibly_  sleep at a time like this!  _If_  this is love, then Leo, for his part, may never sleep again! And if Keev were any kind of boyfriend, he'd certainly help him keep vigil.  
  
  
 _Oh, stop being such a needy infant and leave the man be,_  he finally tells himself, carefully easing out of bed before he really does hike an elbow into Keev's defenseless right kidney.  _He needs his rest, poor baby, and you . . . need a shower. Preferably cold._  
  


*

  
  
Usually showering doesn't take Leo  _quite_  so long. He's always been thorough, but efficient, about both bathing and masturbation.  
  
  
This morning, however, he takes his time, despite the freezing water. Lingers about getting himself hard. Tortures and teases himself with memories of last night--of his  _first time!_  When he gets home, after he's through getting murdered by Grand-Mama, then grounded for eternity plus ten, he can sneak and comm Jace, and gush like a twelve year old girl--till he can barely hold back a roaring monster of an orgasm.  
  
  
Finally, he takes a moment to imagine Keev in the shower with him. Turning him to the wall and nudging his legs apart. Imagines Keev's warm breath in his ear, and blunt, normally precise fingers stretching him quickly, almost ruthlessly before he's crowded against the wall, covered from neck to knees like a hot, living blanket. A blanket that shields him from the worst of the spray, because Keev's just so damn  _chivalrous_  like that.  
  
  
And then . . . oh, God, the most intense-- _owyesfullstopgoodnowmorepleaseohKeev--feeling_  of completion and closeness. . . .  
  
  
It's incredible. The most incredible sensation he's ever felt, and . . . well. His fingers ain't  _nearly_  as satisfying as Keev's dick, but they do just fine in a pinch. Leave him limp and clinging to the shower wall--near tears, and damn near unconscious under needling-cold spray.  
  
  
Incredible, yes . . . and the only thing that could've made it  _absolutely perfect_  was if Keev'd actually been there.  
  


*

  
  
The air outside the bathroom is warm and still, the living room quiet and suffused with bright, overcast light from venetian blinds that'd been closed when Leo went into the bathroom--  
  
  
“Thought you was dyin' in there for minute, kid,” a soft, scratchy soprano says when Leo emerges from the steamy bathroom. He just about flies out of his skin and nearly drops the towel around his waist, but damned good reflexes catch it. (He ain't  _nothin'_  like body-shy, but Leo's no exhibitionist, either.)  
  
  
Sometimes, it's easy to forget Keev's got a roommate. She's barely ever here--spends her time touring the Southeast with The Struts, her retro-billy band. Leo has yet to hear them live, but they have pretty good reproduction value, catchy and weird. Keev keeps making noises about taking him to see them when they're in Atlanta or Raleigh. . . .  
  
  
When his heart quits racing, he stalks across the living room--about four and a half Leo-strides--and looks over the back of the sofa.  
  
  
Bright, curious grey-green eyes gaze up at him curiously, solemnly . . . somehow old in a strong, ovaline face that's porcelain pale in the early morning light. “Yeah, well, I wasn't. Thanks for the concern, though.”  
  
  
A winsome, quirky sort of grin wraps around him for a moment, like an arm slung 'round his shoulder, then those eyes drift shut and the feeling passes. “You're always welcome.”  
  
  
Leo rolls his eyes. Though she's nice enough in a weird, spacy, too-quiet way, she definitely comes across as someone who sniffed waaaay too many Sharpies back in grade school. And she dresses like Annie Oakley meets Woodstock. Her hair, which is platinum--either naturally or not--and teased into a strange rats-nest of purple and green streaks and feathers.  
  
  
“It's about you,” she says out of nowhere, startling Leo out of staring and wardrobe deconstructing, and he puts his hands on his hips. Jules says it makes him look like Superman's runty little brother, but he can't help it.  
  
  
“I'm sorry, what's about me?”  
  
  
Her eyes open again, and her smile changes, as if she's trying to see through Leo, into the small kitchenette. “The song I'm writing. It's about you.”  
  
  
 _About me,_ what? Leo wants to ask, but doesn't. With his luck, she'd probably  _tell_  him that The Struts' next single was about some dumb kid stroking off in the shower after getting his cherry popped.  
  
  
“Uh-huh.” He pastes on a grin. Not that there's a need, her eyes are already closed again, and she's mouthing lyrics Leo hopes he never, ever,  _ever_  hears. “Right. So I should get back to, uh--”  _being fucked stupid by your roommate?_  He sighs. Thinks  _that_  kite has already flown. “--bed. To sleep. Uh. Nice chattin' with ya, Mary Jo.”  
  
  
”Ditto. Sweet dreams, Leo.”  
  


*

  
  
Keev's stirring when Leo closes the door to his bedroom. When Leo slides into bed, he smiles, sweet and sleepy, and Leo's heart turns right over.  
  
  
Strong, warm arms wrap around him. “You smell so fucking good,” Keev sighs happily, hugging Leo close and throwing a leg over his. One hand goes unerringly to Leo's half-hard dick, more than capable of taking care of that pesky  _half_  business.  
  
  
“That makes one of us,” Leo huffs, but without rancor. He lets Keev pin him, kiss him, grope him, stroke him--hump him, with intent to fuck him. Morning breath and sex-funk aside, it's pretty goddamn  _wow_. Not that it takes much, in all honesty. Leo can raise wood on a dime, go from zero to horny in point five seconds. But. . . . “Mary Jo's back, y'know.”  
  
  
“ _Really_  don't care . . . want you  _so_  bad.”  
  
  
“What about roommate etiquette?”  
  
  
Keev laughs around giving him a hickey that'll likely be visible from Vulcan. “What about it? She was supposed to let me know if she'd be back before Sunday. If she gets traumatized by your moaning and yowling, so be it.”  
  
  
“ _Moanin' and yowl--_ ” but Keev's quick to kiss him (mostly) silent. To slide clever, unerring fingers down his shaft and behind his balls and--  
  
  
\-- _God. Damn_. If Leo were in his right mind, he'd be embarrassed at the eager way his legs first fall open, then draw up to give Keev all the access he wants. But Keev merely brushes his finger back and forth teasingly, frustratingly, without pressing in even a  _little_. Watches Leo expectantly for so long, Leo growls. Turns the tables on Keev and has him pinned to the bed in a free-style clinch coach Gorton'd be proud of.  
  
  
So if this were a match, Leo'd totally have the upper hand . . . thus he has no idea why, with Keev gazing up at him calmly, he feels like he very much  _doesn't_  have the upper hand at all.  
  
  
“Stop bein' smarter than me, you smug jerk,” Leo grumbles, straddling Keev's hips and letting his wrists go. Warm, square hands immediately settle on Leo's thighs, fingers framing his erection like it's some sort of odd modern art. “Fine. I s'pose we may as  _well_ fuck, since y'done rubbed most of the goddamn clean off me, already. But we're both showerin' after, and no backsass outta you, either, Mr. Hirsch.”  
  
  
“Yes, sir, Leo, sir. No backsass, sir.” Keev smiles, all dark, kind eyes and cute, teddy bear face. A teddy bear with a hard-on that's once again poking Leo in the ass. Hell, with a little bit of shifting around . . . but no. Preparation first, or Leo knows they'll both regret it later. But he's damned if he remembers where the slick rolled off to.  
  
  
Leo pulls Keev's hand to his dick, and indeed yelps and moans when Keev doesn't waste any time on teasing or foreplay. Just proceeds to damn near take the skin off him, and--they've  _really_  gotta find that slick. “Oh, fuck . . .  _fuck_ , keep callin' me  _sir_  and I might let you wear m' letter jacket.”  
  
  
Keev gives him a blank look, and Leo opens his mouth to explain, then thinks,  _ah, to Hell with it--_  
  
  
\--it's a  _long_  while before they make it to the shower.  
  
  



End file.
